I am Penny from Dirty Dancing and I’m here to tell you this is BULLshit

I used to be a dancer — I mean, a REAL dancer. My motto was: “God wouldn’t have given you maracas if he didn’t want you to shake ‘em”

My maracas, sadly or not, are now sagging, but my vitriol is high: see, I have an experience to share:

It was the summer of 1963, when everybody called me Penny, because, well, it was my name.

That was before the worst experience of my life before this d-bag card-carrying Ayn Randofile Robbie knocked me up and put my career in jeopardy.

Johnny and I had known each other since we were kids, but we really only clicked on the dance floor. Look, I know when we danced together it was hot. That’s because we were hella good. I mean, our asshole boss needed to tell us to STOP because we were showing off in front of the guests.

Which is ridiculous, but obviously, he was jealous. I mean, the boss couldn’t even do the merengue, much less the pachanga — or any dance that we appropriated at the time from people of color.

But back to my situation: when I found out I was knocked up, I really should have done things differently. First, I never should have relied on Billy to find a “real MD” — he has no boundaries and is a total pushover. He let this child into our after-party, carrying, of all things, a watermelon. No one even asked for a watermelon! As an aside, this child is pretty ridiculous. Here she is with a trust fund — college- and she envies ME. Please.

And you might be asking yourself: who is Billy anyway? EXACTLY.

So Billy finds this guy and the watermelon child comes up with a wad of cash to pay for it. Obviously, it had to be done in secret, because at that time, dear reader, abortions were illegal.

I had a lot on my mind, but didn’t really even he the support of my dance partner, or the fetus’s “father.” The former was too busy mamboing all over every log in the Catskills with watermelon girl and don’t even get me started about Robbie. I won’t waste any more thought on that man- who is like so many men I see these days. Now that I’m 85 I can only picture him as a Ben Shapiro type — but I am hoping I had better taste back then.

So the night of the procedure came. Johnny was off doing the Mambo and I was stuck with Billy (who?) who proved himself to be completely ineffectual in a crisis, waiting until Johnny came home to even call for help.

It was the worst pain of my life. He used a dirty knife and had a folding table. Finally, watermelon girl when to get her father- who soothed me and did something down there — it’s unclear exactly what.

He told me I could still have children. Like that was the only thing I was concerned about. Like that was the only purpose of being a woman.

And, friends, it ended up not being true. I couldn’t have children. The botched abortion, which I had to have in order to keep my job, but also had to hide in order to keep my job (?) made it so that even if I wanted to later, I couldn’t have children.

And now, I am 85, my maracas are at rest, I have come to terms with what happened to me, but I am appalled that what I went through in 1963 is going to be the fate of women all over this country.

So from me, Penny from Dirty Dancing: Go back to your playpens, men. And get the fuck out of our uteruses.

Photo 153297817 © Aliia Chazova | Dreamstime.com