This is not about the movie, but I might as well go ahead and and gripe about it anyway.
Here’s something I’ve always wondered about Dirty Dancing. Daddy hates Johnny for sleeping with Baby. Then Johnny dances with Baby, and Daddy finds out that Creepy (sorry, can’t remember his name, and not worth googling) was the guy who got Penny pregnant. Daddy APOLOGIZES to Johnny. Huh? Just because Johnny can swing Baby over his head, and didn’t actually impregnate someone else, it is OKAY by Daddy for this partially-employed tight-shirted dude to sleep with his teenage daughter? Yeah, my daddy certainly would have felt the same way.
But I digress.
This is about MY dirty dancing. I am a fabulous dancer. In my own mind anyway. Now I’m not talking about the Fox Trot, or Tango, or Dirty Dancing’s Merengue (which I have no idea what that is). I admire ballroom dancing (especially Maksim Cmerkovskiy), but my ability in that form consists of what we used to call “slow-dancing”: moving my feet somewhat while hugging my husband.
No, I am talking about DANCING – hip swaying, pelvis thrusting, boob shaking, rock n roll dancing. I can MOVE!
Just strike up the intro to “Shout” and I’m a sexy, gravity-defying, rhythm genius. I prance, stomp, jiggle my girly parts like the exhibitionist I could never otherwise be.
My husband can’t really dance, and is self-conscious when I drag him to the floor for “Good Lovin'” But I don’t care. Dancing isn’t about him. It’s about ME.
Years ago (I’m thinking the mid-eighties), Chubby Checker performed at a local dinner club.
He may have been a little past his prime, but he could still triple-time twist. The audience sat at their tables and enjoyed the performance. Not me. I got up from the table and danced my ass off. My boyfriend of the moment appeared mortified. I did not care.
But now I am worried.
The youngest of my adult nephews is getting married. Here he is dancing with me at my wedding twenty years ago.
The wedding is still three months away, but I am already sad. This is the first wedding –and dancing–for me since I have turned the big Six-Oh.
Even in my own fantasy land, I can’t picture a sixty-year-old doing the fanny-wagging necessary to get the absolute most out of Mony Mony.
So I am retiring from the dance floor. I will miss it. My husband will be relieved.
Unless of course, my sister – mother of the groom and older than me – cuts loose. Then all bets are off.