An open letter to Patrick Swayze

Dear Patrick,

I was 356 days old when Dirty Dancing came out in theaters. Nine days shy of my first birthday, I wouldn't see it until I was 3. That fateful day, my sisters sat me down for a double dose of your dreaminess.

We watched The Outsiders first. You were so mean to your younger brothers, but it's ok! You were only strict because you loved them. And then Pony Boy and Johnny came back from hiding, you were so delighted! Oh god, YOU WERE SO WORRIED ABOUT HIM. Sitting by the door at night, waiting patiently for your dear baby brother to come home safe. You weren't even mad that he and a friend had accidentally killed Leif Garrett in knife fight at a park and left his body in that huge Italian-looking fountain.

Yes, Patrick, that was when I noticed how breathtakingly masculine you were. Yet, you were so warm and inviting. I thought to myself, "Hey, I could get into this guy."

Actually, I was only 3 so I was probably thinking "HEY GUYS, LET'S MAKE PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICHES AFTER THIS SO WE DON'T GET HUNGRY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NEXT MOVIE," I was a very sensible toddler.

Snacks in hand, we sat down to watch Dirty Dancing.

Oh. My. God. WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THIS GUY LIKED TO DANCE?! I guess I was a hopeless romantic from childhood, because I saw you sweep Baby off her feet and I was smitten. You started off as kind of a dickhead, though. And your ginger cousin was pretty adorable. But then you and baby get back from the Sheldrake AND OH MY GOD, NO, PENNY'S ABORTION WENT TERRIBLY WRONG. And you scoop penny up into your big, strong dancer's arms and whisper, "it's ok, Johnny's here." Seriously, Patrick, if I wasn't only 3, my panties would have been flying at that television screen.

After that I watched the VHS over and over again until it wore out. I cried until my parents bought me another copy. You know that fat royalty check you got in 1988? You're welcome.

You went off the grid for a while after that, started boozing and went to rehab like everyone else did in the 80s. But I could never forget you, Patrick.

Ghost came out in theaters. OH GOD IT WAS SO ROMANTIC. YOU LOVED DEMI MOORE SO GODDAMN MUCH I COULD HARDLY STAND IT. But it all seemed so overdone, the romance was exaggerated and I felt like you were still Johnny Castle and you and Baby had broken up for one reason or another. (Maybe because you were like 30 and she was about to start Mount Holyoke in the fall, so it just couldn't have worked.) And you had resorted to marrying Demi Moore only because she seemed kinda nice and everything, but Baby was always in the back of your mind. Whether it was the night you deflowered her or the day you rescued her from her parents and boldly declared that "nobody puts baby in a corner," YOU WERE ALWAYS THINKING OF HER.

Then your career kind of waned. You did some action movies, worked with the prestigious Keanu Reaves and even played some creepy religious pedophile in Donnie Darko. The whole time, I never forgot you.

Then I heard the news. You had pancreatic cancer. Stage IV. You weren't going to make it.

I prepared myself for the inevitable. I knew you would die. I knew it would be hard for me to handle, but that's life, Patrick, and I just had to accept it. You did that Barbara Walters interview. I watched it with a pint of ice cream and a box of tissues. I pride myself on not being an estrogen time bomb, but I just couldn't handle it. YOU WERE HOLDING ON FOR LIFE, PATRICK, THAT IS SO LIKE YOU.

You lasted so long until I got that phone call that you had passed on. I came straight home and laid in bed, watching your films and listening to Bill Medley croon about he'd had the time of his life and he owed it all to you.

The five stages of grief kicked in.

1. Denial
Whatever, it's not like I even knew him. I'll be fine. I don't even care. He's not even dead, it's probably one of those rumors like with Jeff Goldblum a few months ago. He's fine.
2. Anger
YOU SON OF A BITCH, PATRICK. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME NOW?! NOW, WHEN I NEED YOU THE MOST. HOW AM I EVER SUPPOSED TO GO ON KNOWING THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO POSSIBILITY OF ME LOSING MY VIRGINITY TO YOU. FUCK YOU, PATRICK SWAYZE. I'M GLAD YOU'RE DEAD.
3. Bargaining
Alright, god. I'll give you the full monty and completely convert to Judaism, paperwork and everything as long as you let him live. Seriously, I'll observe Shabbos, go to temple, Yom Kippur, Hannukah, everything. JUST LET HIM LIVE.
4. Depression
I am sitting Shiva for six months. I am going to wear black for the rest of my life. My bones heart, my heart hurts, I don't want to leave my bed ever again.
5. Acceptance.
I knew this was going to happen. It's better this way.


Wherever you are, Patrick, you dance that mambo like it's nobody's business.