I absolutely detest the “Macarena” song. I’m probably one of the few people on the face of the Earth who did not learn the dance, nor had the desire to learn it. I daresay I hated that song even before it became so annoyingly popular, and I hate it because it reminds me of someone who broke my heart.

‘Twas the summer of ‘96 and I was home from college. I worked at the local fast joint with a beautiful redhead. We’ll call her S. I had given this girl roses for her birthday and she kissed me after work: I was naïve enough to think this meant she had feelings for me. So I asked her on a date, and she said yes. On the big day, I noticed a hickey on her neck. I asked her about the date we’d planned and she said she had changed her mind.

A few weeks after she destroyed my fragile psyche, I saw her in the parking lot, doing this dance I’d never seen before. I learned that the dance was the Macarena, and I developed a loathing for it. It’s rare that I hear the song now, but I’m still reminded of a fair-skinned, voluptuous redhead who made me miserable.