K-I-S-S-I-N-G

I haven’t posted anything in some time. I guess I just haven’t been properly inspired. Today is no different I regret to inform you. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened that I felt like I needed to write about. I did jot down some thoughts the other day about things that bother me (For example, that people seem to almost universally misuse apostrophes when really all they are trying to do is make a word plural. It’s not No Shirt, No Shoe’s, No Service [which I actually saw on a sign last weekend]. It’s No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service. No shit.). But it came off sounding not only very negative but also extremely arrogant. Who am I to get all upset when people do these things? I’m sure there is a whole laundry list of things I do that bug people. I need to be more tolerant. I’m not planning to be, of course. But I still need to be.

So, if nothing has happened lately worth writing about, why am I writing? Well, the other day in the car, I was thinking about something from several years ago that was still so humiliating, so embarrassingly painful to think about that I actually said , “Oh God”, out loud. To no one. It was then that I decided that you might enjoy reliving this excruciating moment in my history. At best, it may give you something to chuckle about. At the very least it’ll just make you thankful that you are not me. You probably already are – abundantly so - but this should most certainly make you realize what a gift it is not to be saddled with these kinds of horrors from your own adolescence.

Here it is. The story of my first kiss.

Growing up, I was very skinny. I hated the word “skinny” and preferred to be called “thin” or “lean”, when in actuality, I should have been called “anorexic” or “emaciated”. I wasn’t unhealthy; I just could not gain weight. I didn’t break 100 pounds until college when I discovered wine and beer. Because of this, I was extremely self-conscious. I felt ugly and I knew if I thought I was ugly that it was likely that the boys did too. So I became even more self-conscious when I was in their company which, let’s face it, I rarely was.

It was sophomore year (in high school – please give me some credit). Yes, I was fifteen years old. To this day, it infuriates me when someone talks about their first kiss being in sixth grade or something. I was WAY behind that. There was no way in hell I would ever have been capable of speaking to a boy in sixth grade much less allowing their tongue in my mouth. I had crushes on boys as early as kindergarten but I certainly would have NEVER even conceived of a. letting them know and b. well, there is no “B”. I just wouldn’t have gone near any of them! The closest I came to bodily contact with a crush was in second grade when Jay Waggoner got up in class to use the pencil sharpener and I went up there afterward so my hand could touch where his had just been. If our bodies had accidentally brushed by each other and touched I probably would have collapsed. Luckily there was no such contact or I might have forever been in a vegetative state.

Anyway, I had seen all kinds of teen movies that played to all of those school girl dreams of having the really hot guy fall in love with you despite the fact that you were horribly awkward. I studied those movies – watched when the characters hands would brush each other accidentally and my stomach would explode with butterflies. There would be several awkward exchanges between the boy and girl but it would all build to the end-all-be-all moment of that first kiss. Because I had watched so many of these movies three things happened. I became very aware of my body during any contact I had with a boy; I lived in a fantasy world where I believed the lies these movies tell young girls about how the guys are just as awkward in the moments leading up to a kiss; and I believed that a kiss was the pinnacle of any relationship and I placed a lot of importance over how it would go. Because I had envisioned this enigma as the most important thing that could possibly ever happen to me, I became extremely fearful of it.

(Actually, a fourth thing happened – I also started making out with a stuffed dog that had a big mouth that my grandfather had gotten for us kids at the bank when he opened a savings account for us. My brother, who was a baby at the time we got these dogs, in his inability to articulate because of his young age, called him “Dawddie” [as in “doggie”], so really I should probably credit Dawddie as being my first kiss. And before you start assuming that I was fifteen and making out with a stuffed animal, it’s actually not quite that sad.  I was probably eight or ten. I realize that is still WAY too old, but, if you’ll recall, I was quite weird. I’m just saying that for the record, Dawddie was instrumental in me beginning to practice the art of the kiss. Or, at least, the art of me rubbing my mouth all over a toy. But I digress…)

I've always been a little bit inept at meeting people and it takes me a while to warm up to people I don’t really know. Once I do, I am very comfortable acting silly and joking around. In fact, if I first meet you among a group of people I am comfortable with, I will be a completely different person than if you meet me one-on-one. It’s gotten better as I’ve aged, but to this day I am still clumsy at meeting new people. So, if I’m awkward now, I’d say that twenty five years ago, I was a raging ass-hammer.

Anyway, the Homecoming dance was coming up and, (oddly I’m sure you’re thinking), I found myself without a date. There was a guy I had a crush on whom I had gotten to know when he started hanging out with my group of friends. He was hilarious – the funniest guy I had ever met. Because I had gotten to know him among people I was already at ease with, I probably came off as a lot of fun. I was silly and joked around quite a bit in his presence. I felt like he’d like me if he really knew me. But you see, he didn’t really know me. He knew the “me” who was with her friends inside her comfort zone. I had never been alone with him. If I had been, I would have been a bumbling mess and he never would have given me a second look. But this was not the case and he very stupidly asked me to the dance. I was so excited! And petrified.

The good news was that I was going with a group that included my friend, Jenny, who was going to spend the night after the dance. And to be honest, I don’t really remember who else was there or what all we did. I think we went to someone’s house afterwards and watched a movie. I know we did in fact because I remember the way we were seated and that our shoulders kept moving closer and closer to each other and that I was sweating and breathing heavy at the very thought of it. Touching shoulders! Can you imagine?! How HOT!!! But to me, it was. I was so nervous that I worried if I opened my mouth to speak, a butterfly might come flying out – directly from my stomach. Speaking of my stomach, I also remember very vividly that it was growling audibly. I had been so nervous leading up to the date that I couldn’t eat for all of the knots in my stomach. Probably hadn’t eaten much for a couple of weeks and couldn’t force anything down at dinner the night of Homecoming. (Is it shameful to admit that the same thing happened when I first met my husband? I lost a good eight pounds before our first date. Probably is shameful. I’ll leave that out.)

So, my stomach was growling and exploding with nerves for the duration of the evening. I wore a frumpy sweater dress (WHAT?) and did my own hair (my God, no!). The very thought of my appearance and how nervous and awkward I was that night still embarrasses me. In fact, typing this makes me instinctively bury my head in my hands to shield myself from public view. And I have the pictures somewhere in my parents’ house if I ever become too confident in my present-day appearance. I am only one flashcard away from ever being allowed to get too cocky. There will always be proof of what I allowed myself to look like ON A DATE lurking around. And my siblings are just cruel enough to whip those out at any moment.

Speaking of sibling cruelty – I can’t believe I’m just now remembering this! I’m positive that the date started out with my sister ringing the doorbell ten minutes early so I could freak out that my date had arrived before I was adequately prepared. On the (very) rare occasion I had a date, she would always do that so I would panic. And my dates must have been so infrequent that I would always forget that she would do it so I would go to pieces every time it happened. She never had the burden of being so spastic on her own dates so she would use my idiocy as her entertainment. I would get my revenge, however, by digging up and then placing strategically about the house pictures of her from her middle school years – a decidedly homely time in her appearance – when her boyfriends would come over.

Anyway, the evening must have gone on without incident. I don’t remember much about what happened and what we did. I’m sure that I was fine when I was surrounded by my girl friends and then a silent, peculiar jumble of nerves when he and I found ourselves alone. At some point, the time came for my date and Jenny’s date to take us home. We were all 15 so none of us could drive. My date – we’ll call him Jason (Actually, his real name is Jason. As you might imagine, he and I did not stay in touch so there’s no fear of him reading this.) - had his father drive us. I was fairly relaxed on the way home because I knew I wouldn’t be faced with the pressure of a kiss since his father was driving us home. It was probably the most relaxed I had been all evening. Crisis averted! The ride to my house was fine. I can’t remember how many couples there were, but we were in a big van and I believe we were the second stop in the off-loading process.

Jason’s father pulled the car to the curb in front of my well-lit house. I thanked him for the ride and Jenny and I walked up the sidewalk toward the house with our dates following behind us (with Jason most likely trying to see if he could detect any kind of a figure underneath that shapeless, horrid dress). We made our way up the stairs and I turned to thank Jason and tell him it had been fun. I noticed that he had stopped on the step below mine so we were now at eye level. I have no idea how it happened, but the next thing I knew, it felt like someone had released a goldfish into my mouth and it was desperately trying to find its way out as I chased it with a goldfish of my own. All I could see was the porch light and the cypress tree that was next to my house. That image is forever burned into my memory. I think my eyes must have flown open at the shock of what was happening. And over my shoulder I heard my friend Jenny, whose face was not buried in the mouth of her date shout, “WHOA!!!!”.

Whoa indeed. This moment; this milestone in my life. Let’s make sure we’re clear about what was happening here. I was making out with this person right next to one couple while several others AS WELL AS MY DATE’S FATHER looked on from the van. The couple that exited before us didn’t do this. Why were we?! I was pretty sure my first kiss would be a disaster, but I certainly didn’t imagine that it would be public. This had never happened in any movie I had seen. The guy was supposed to shyly approach with a glazed look on his face and hem and haw while the girl smiles sweetly and prepare for him to make his move. There was no move that I witnessed. He just dove in.

For what seemed like an eternity, I was standing there in shocked, kissing this person with my neck awkwardly bent to one side staring at the porch light. I have no recollection of doing anything with my arms. I don’t know if I put my arms around him or just stood there with them dangling at my sides. If I had to guess, I’d say they were at my sides. I think my entire body except for my tongue was simply frozen. I remember being very aware that we had an audience and shocked that this was on display. I was fearful that people would accuse me of being slutty since I was “the type of girl who would make out in public”.  Can you imagine that thought now? Girls are sending nude selfies to people on SnapChat and I was worried about a harmless kiss. But to me, a kiss was the biggest deal in the world as you’ll recall.

I have no idea how long it lasted, who pulled away or what the hell I must have said as I went into my house. But I remember Jenny laughing hysterically and me thinking that I needed to brush my teeth for, like, an hour and a half. You’d think I would have felt relief at the thought that I now had this big, mysterious thing over with and no longer had to worry about it. But you’d be wrong. I was actually more terrified than ever since nothing about the experience had been comfortable or enjoyable. I worried about it for the rest of the weekend. That next Monday in school, I was still reeling with embarrassment. He and I saw each other in the hall where our group normally hung out and I

Did.

Not.

Say.

A.

Word.

Sensing things might be a little weird (since he could tell I was avoiding him); he walked up to me sheepishly and said “Hey”. And I

Did.

Not.

Say.

A.

Word.

And so it went. So you see, I actually made an already horrifyingly awkward experience even more so by not even acknowledging him that day. Quite a feat. It’s possible that my odd behavior following the kiss was even weirder than my poor kissing prowess.  What a complete and total jackass.  Even as I type today, I am completely humiliated. I keep putting my hands to my forehead as though I might be able to just wipe the memory away. I can’t really tell you whose memory I’d rather erase – mine or his.

I have no idea at what point I actually did resume speaking to him. I wasn’t angry. I was just so embarrassed that I wanted to pretend as though it had never happened. I know that we became friendly (but not too friendly) again the next year when I went on a youth group ski trip to West Virginia. I actually was able to once again enjoy being around him and not be constantly reminded of our well-lit, public, spitty encounter on my front porch steps. Mostly because there was never any danger that he might be dumb enough to ever try to kiss me again.

So that’s it. Utter humiliation - no big deal. I think I’ll go crawl under a table now. The only thing worse was the time I thought a guy was going to kiss me and he really wasn’t and I ended up smearing my lip across his cheek. God, that was awful. Haven’t spoken to that guy in years, thank goodness. Hopefully something blog-worthy will happen in the coming days/weeks so I won’t have to go back in time and relive any more of these childhood calamities. I’d hate to think I’d have to unearth the story of when I lost my virginity.  By the end of that one, we’d all want to crawl under the table.