In high school, I developed a bit of a reputation among a group of boys. They named me ‘the ducker’. Dates were infrequent. As an only child and attending an all girls school without a designated ‘brother’ school, I didn’t really know that many boys. The very first dance I attended was a middle school semi-formal. Luckily, I had remained in contact with a couple of boys from elementary school and was able to ask one of them to go to the dance. The thing I remember most from that night was Scott’s Gumby pin. His willingness to be a little different was one of the things I liked best about him.
Attending the Rose Bowl in Texas, 2021. It’s a long story.
Football games, a driver’s license, and a wider group of friends introduced me to a few more boys. Still dating was not a regular thing. When we did go out or attend a dance, we traveled in packs. One prom we organized a tour bus to transport the dozen or more couples to and from the event and afterparties.
When asked to go out on a date, no matter how fun it was, there was always that moment at the front door under the porch light. Goodbyes and thank you’s had been exchanged. A pause before a kiss was attempted. My reflex was to move my head out of the way and give a quick hug before throwing myself through the threshold and into the comfort of my house.
What became my signature move wasn’t because I didn’t like these boys or that I didn’t like kissing. It was part nervousness and part uncertainty. Uncertainty about whether I really liked them enough to kiss. Even a single kiss felt like a precious gift meant to be reserved for a special person, not something expected just because you went to see a movie together.
My mom and Goggy were very affectionate with me. Sometimes hugging and kissing me to the point where I felt smothered. My mom had a habit of kissing and hugging me in public. I have many memories of being sandwiched between my mom and grandmother in restaurant booths wishing I could slide away under the table.
My East Coast grandparents were affectionate but not overly demonstrative. Our hugs and kisses followed a strict pattern. A hug when I first arrived at the airport. A hug and maybe an extra squeeze each night before bedtime. Holding hands when we walked, or if my grandmother and I were in the backseat during a long car ride. Several hugs and a kiss or two as we said goodbye before my flight home.
Phil and I went on our first date several years after our initial meeting. We would run into each other at various events and talk, sometimes only to one another, yet nothing that could be considered a real date. The night of our date, Phil picked me up for an early dinner reservation to be followed by an outdoor, experimental opera. We ended up going out after the opera, neither one of us ready to call it a night.
As Phil walked me to the door, I was seized with that familiar nervousness. We lingered on the front porch, agreed to have a second date, then there we were at the pause. He leaned in. I thought we were doing a hug. This was a first date, after all. He was going for a kiss. His lips awkwardly met the side of my head. Whispery, nervous laughter escaped from both of us. We said our final goodnight.
Our second date included a real kiss, or two.
