First and foremost, an apology is due. If only I had known that a moment of Chardonnay-induced weakness, fueled by the questionable influence of a vintage Playgirl issue, would birth this inescapable yacht rock earworm, I swear I would have opted for a sedative and a swift descent into slumber. Instead, I penned a personal ad – a decision my therapist now affectionately labels “the cornerstone of our twice-weekly sessions.” This confession feels necessary, a preemptive strike against the inevitable obituary headline: “Woman Behind Infamous Piña Colada Song Dies After Prolonged Exposure to Musical Cheese.” Let the world know, this was not my intended life trajectory, for myself or anyone unfortunate enough to know the song.
The stark reality, conveniently omitted from the breezy tune, was loneliness. My then-boyfriend worked graveyard shifts hawking dubious diet pills at a soul-crushing call center. Our paths intersected solely between 6:30 and 7 a.m., a fleeting moment as he returned home just as I was heading for the shower. And let me tell you, a man fueled by all-night shifts and questionable stimulants possesses a libido rivaled only by a caffeinated honey badger. It was… taxing. Conversations were limited to my weary inquiries of “Are you ever going to sleep?” and gentle reminders that “Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific is not intended for that kind of application.”
So, yes, judge away, I sought connection beyond the pre-dawn hours. This was the pre-Tinder dark ages; dating options were limited to newspaper classifieds or venturing into discos thick with amyl nitrate and questionable cologne, hoping a bartender might momentarily resemble a young John Travolta. I chose the classifieds, and as they say, the rest is excruciatingly catchy history.
I won’t subject you to a lyric-by-lyric breakdown of the song. Instead, let’s dissect the “creative liberties” my ex-boyfriend (currently dodging my civil suit) employed while supposedly “writing” – likely during another stimulant-fueled overnight shift. Let’s begin with the opening line:
“I was tired of my lady.” Really? Is that why you attempted a daily reenactment of a nature documentary in my shower? And the “reading the paper in bed” line? Pure fiction. The classified ad even existed because his literary pursuits were confined to comic strips on the porcelain throne. His feigned weariness of his “lady” conveniently masked his pursuit of extracurricular activities. And the audacity – none of the descriptions in my ad remotely resembled this man!
Why would I advertise for qualities I already possessed? My classified clearly omitted requests for a questionable mustache, a gas-guzzling Ford Pinto, or, shall we say, limited physical endowments. My vision was clear: cocktails in the rain. An intellectual who favored athletic intimacy on windswept beaches over performative stretching exercises. Was there a communication breakdown? This ad was designed for anyone but him. And yet…
A week later, the response arrived, and admittedly, a flicker of hope ignited. He misconstrued “yoga” as “yogurt” (“not much into health food,” charming), but desperation lowers standards. The rendezvous point, however, raised eyebrows: “tomorrow noon… at a bar called O’Malley’s.” Broad daylight in an Irish pub felt less than romantic, and O’Malley’s in the seventies featured a bartender with a notable dental vacancy. Not to sound elitist, but ideal first date spot for a black market organ dealer, perhaps, not a supposed connoisseur of fine beverages. Still, a sliver of optimism propelled me forward. This, I naively thought, could be the start of something new, an escape from the mundane.
Then I saw him. And reality and song lyrics irrevocably parted ways. “I knew her smile in an instant,” the song claims. Smile? My facial expression likely resembled a rictus of horror. Perhaps the corners of my mouth twitched in a grimace. He, in peak comedic timing, feigned surprise, possibly even brandishing imaginary finger guns and exclaiming, “What a coinky-dink!” I managed a strangled, “Oh… it’s you.” That detail, at least, retains a sliver of truth.
The ensuing song verses are pure fantasy. Rekindled flame? Laughter? We broke up on the spot, the catalyst being a sticky barstool adorned with a crudely etched, yet enthusiastic, phallic symbol. My lawyer insisted on an affidavit, excerpt below:
“Upon regaining a modicum of composure, I requested the defendant to enumerate the ingredients of a piña colada. He stared blankly for an eternity, or approximately one verse of ‘Night Fever’ according to the jukebox, before uttering, ‘um, rum, triple sec, and… bananas?’ I retorted, ‘That’s a daiquiri, you imbecile.’ I then promptly exited O’Malley’s, sought refuge in my car, and wept. A feigned illness secured me a day off work, which I spent hurling the defendant’s ill-advised Nehru jacket from my second-story apartment window.”
So there you have it. The unvarnished truth, directly from the source. And for those perpetually curious, no, piña coladas have been strictly off-limits since 1979. However, I did once experience romance in the sand dunes of Cape Cod. Pro tip: bring a blanket. Currently, I’m petitioning to have the song removed from all streaming platforms while this legal saga unfolds. If my story resonates, if you understand the yearning for a true Song Escape – an escape from this song’s shadow over my life – I have a final, heartfelt plea:
Write to me. Help me escape.
