Eeek, why did I write this??? I will never know. Column nine.
PS: if you haven't already figured it out, these columns are dated. It's actually been almost one year since "we" broke up. It was also our seven year anniversary last month. Well, would have been. That felt weird. Just waiting for the weirdness to end. And for someone to give me the power to invent words like weirdness.
So, I kissed this guy on the weekend. I know, what am I? Thirteen? Regardless of how juvenile that sounded, the point is, I have had my first passionate lip-lock with someone other than my ex since 2001.
Embarrassing as it may seem, after that long with the same guy, jumping back on the market feels a little like starting all over again.
And remember how crap it was starting over? Ugh. I’m not sure about you but there was such a fear involved as the inevitable milestone of my first kiss crept up on me. A fear of not knowing what to do, of possibly discovering I was a bad kisser, of the idea ‘he’ could tell everyone how much I ‘like, totally sucked’.
When I was about 13, even after my first kiss, I used to get so nervous if I found out a boy ‘liked me, liked me’. It actually it occurred to me one day maybe that meant I was a lesbian. I know, laugh, it’s stupid. Even sadder is that, back then, the idea I could be gay was mortifying. How would I ever live it down?
Anyway, the bonus of a “first kiss” in your 20s, apart from the fact your partner in crime probably doesn’t taste like the potato chips he ate at recess, is the benefit of alcohol.
Alcohol was the catalyst for the public embrace between Mark and me last weekend. I don’t think it would have happened any other way. That’s not to say there was anything wrong with Mark, quite the opposite; it’s just that, despite being about six months into my breakup, I felt like a horrible cheater.
Once I had convinced myself that wasn’t the case, and that my ex had most probably and quite rightfully got up to similar shenanigans, I was still questioning the decision. I know it’s ridiculous. Six months is a far more substantial mourning period than most would commit to. But, to me, it was as if the time spend being single, without moving on to that kind of bachelorette lifestyle, was my way of respecting not just my ex, but the six years we had together.
Putting those feelings aside, back to the kiss. I’ve actually known Mark for quite some time. He’s a friend’s cousin and also went to the same university as me. But I hadn’t seen him for years. Our kiss, shared at a mutual friends’ birthday party, was borne out of lost inhibitions (or alcohol) and swing dancing.
You see Mark is a PE teacher and dancing, so he told me, is the subject of prac this term. Lucky for Mark, he has rhythm and he was happily busting a grove on the dance floor. Working the genres, Mark soon progressed to swing dancing, for which he needed a partner. It doesn’t take much to drag me onto a dance floor so Mark, a good looking guy, had no trouble convincing me to join him.
Have you ever had a crack at swing before? It’s fun but, when wearing a low cut dress, it’s dangerous. Perhaps it was the unintentional boob flash I gave Mark that attracted him, perhaps it was the beer – I’ll probably never know – but he moved in for the pash and I kindly obliged.
It’s worth noting, as part of my commitment to you, before I write a column of this nature again, I’m going to come up with some better, more adult words for “pash”. Promise.
Anyway, the pash continued well into the night until the inevitable question arose: your place or mine? My inevitable answer, at least for now, was neither. That jump is going to take a little more time.