My husband plays a lot of hockey in the late evenings. A lot of hockey. I would never ever ever suggest to him that he play less hockey—he loves it, it’s great exercise, and let’s face it, I am more than perfectly happy to be in control of the remote for a little while.

Last night he came home just before midnight and I was doing, um, pretty much exactly what I am doing every time he comes home from hockey—working, skype chatting with my favorite people, drinking peppermint tea, and watching Dirty Dancing.

(And by Dirty Dancing I really mean Dirty Dancing, The Breakfast Club, Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Footloose, Say Anything, Some Kind of Wonderful, Can’t Buy Me Love, St. Elmo’s Fire.)

(See also: REALITY TV)

(See also: really crappy rom-coms. Catch and Release anyone?)

But last night’s 1980s teen angsty movie of choice was Dirty Dancing.

It was also Saturday night’s choice too. Don’t judge.

My husband walked in with a giant container of hot wings, guffawed loudly, and took a seat beside me.

“Wait…who is she?”

“And who is he?”

“He totally just checked her out in the car while she was changing. Dirty bird!”

“Who is the father of that baby? Swayze?”

“Oh, and her father is doctor. I see. And he doesn’t know that Swayze isn’t the father?”

Before either of us knew what was happening

MY HUSBAND WAS WATCHING DIRTY DANCING WITH ME.

It was so heavenly.

That was, of course, until the danceslashsex scene. You know the one. The one that comes after the “Me? I’m scared of everything. I’m scared of who I am, of what I saw, of what I did. And most of all, I’m scared of walking out of the this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you.”

And then…DANCE WITH ME.

And then he kind of lost it at the absurdity of the whole dance number.

“Because that’s what would happen in real life. A dance sequence. He wants her. She wants him. It’s…forbidden love. And yet…they are going to dance first. Shirtless. In his bedroom.”

“Yeah. Stop reading too much into it.”

“Also, she’s wearing white pants. Aren’t you judging her?”

“It was the 60s.”

“…and they are STILL dancing. Oh wait…now she’s dancing around him.”

“Well thanks for ruining *that* for me.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“What’s next? You going to ruin the birthday cake on the table scene at the end of Sixteen Candles?”

“Probably.”

“I’m never letting you watch another one of my cheesy 80s movies again!!!”

“…”

“Don’t think I didn’t see what you did there.”