I should probably preface this by saying that I turned 29 a few weeks ago. This, of course, makes me a Libra. Now here’s the part where I can pretend to be all that is knowledge and coolness and tell you a bit about how Libras are special in one form or another and how the following blog post is reflective of the personality traits bestowed upon me by the stars under which I was born…

Or I could just admit that the closest I’ve ever come  to being all that is knowledge and coolness in terms of astrology is that day when I almost got a set of scales tattooed on my shoulder out of boredom, and the only reason I mentioned “Libras” is so that I mention a hot tattoo guy.

And he was hot.

Trust me.

And now that we’ve established my age as well as my affinity for hot tattoo guys, let’s move on to the question of the day:

How many times did you watch Johnny and Baby do the dirty dance before you realized that that money from Daddy was for an illegal abortion?

No, really, it’s an important question that I’ve pondered for some time. It’s not quite as pressing as whether or not I can see Russia from my house, of course, but still…

Taking into account that the movie was released in 1987, my age, and the overall quality of parental supervision during that time where my mother absolutely loathed exercising but looked so damn good in a leotard that she taught six aerobics classes a week; I’m going to hazard a guess of at least a hundred, maybe two.

And I’m going to throw in well over 300 viewings of Grease before I had enough knowledge *ahem* under my belt to fully understand that “chicks’ll cream” line.

Yes, we can lay it all at the feet of “you were too young to be watching movies like that anyhow”. But the fact remains that I did— And, looking back at all of the hours spent in front of the television dialoguing along with the characters while perfecting the John Travolta in the bleachers hand point, somehow it just doesn’t seem… fair. Like I was deprived of something. (Surely not the joys of an intricate plot or anything, but something, you know?)

Which is why I’d like to officially give thanks to Dolly Parton and the Chicken Ranch— who were kind enough to take pity on unsupervised children like myself and brave enough to skip the implied and innuendos altogether. After all, it may have taken me ten years to understand why Penny’s doctor with the fold-out table stabbed her in the stomach…

But even I got that Texas had a whorehouse in it.

And that Aggie boys were made by dancing in their underwear in the backyard.