I was 10 years old when my mother took me to the movies to see “Dirty Dancing.” I, like so many women, fell head over heels in love—with the movie, with the soundtrack, and most definitely with Patrick Swayze. I loved that movie so much that when I couldn’t sleep at night I used to recite the movie in my head line by line.
That was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me Baby, and it didn’t occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn’t wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I’d never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Kellerman’s.
When the 20th anniversary of the film rolled around in 2007 it was finally time to admit what I had long known—”Dirty Dancing” ruined my love life. Read more …