All posts tagged: Kissing

public displays of affection

Get a Room!

The Wedding Date and I are currently in Bermuda– sans internet— but don’t worry.  I wrote the following last week so you’d have a little something to tide you over until we get back. I’m at my favorite coffee shop, and even though I love the drinks, love the ambiance and love the music, I hate the clientele.  My ideal coffee shop, actually, would be a private coffee shop (I believe most people call these “offices”) but until I land a book deal, publish a best seller and make enough money to purchase my dream home in Queen Village (I have it already picked out, in case you were wondering), I’m stuck here. Fortunately, I love people watching.  In fact, if people watching was an Olympic Sport, I could give Phelps a run for his money.  But it’s not, so I’m left to hone my craft on days such as these. Today’s floor show began with a little brat in ringlets and a striped romper.  First she wanted a donut, then she wanted a bagel, …

The Good Thing About Ambivalence

Long story short, Date #7 (the man-from-across-the-state who came to Philadelphia this past weekend for what should have been our “third-time’s-a-charm” date) forgot to pack his cell phone charger when he left Pittsburgh. Given the various issues that have plagued our relationship from its very inception, I hit the roof—not because his mistake left me sitting alone in a bar, mind you, but because my reaction to his mistake made me realize that I really don’t trust him.  I jumped to conclusions and assumed the worst because he really hasn’t given me any reason not to.  And where’s a fledgling long-distance without trust? Frankly, I’m sick of writing about Date #7, and if yesterday’s comments are of any indication, you’re sick of hearing about him too.  But dating is dating, and I’ve always intended to chronicle the good, the bad and the ugly so for the sake of keeping you all up to date: here goes. He apologized and I attempted, after a good show of indifference, to accept his apology, but I was angry.  …

“Kissed, and Often, by Someone Who Knows How”

Let’s talk about kissing for a moment, shall we?  As you might have noticed by now, I’m hesitant to say too much about my weekend with Date #7, partially because I know if I do I’ll end up with a terrible case of “analysis paralysis” but also because Date #7’s been known to stop by on occasion. Nonetheless, I shall endeavor to drop a few hints, which you can piece together on your own and draw your own confusions. (And when you do that, would you mind sharing them with me?  Because I’m still confused as hell.  Thanks.) So.  Back to kissing. I can count on one hand the number of proper, Hollywood style kisses I’ve experienced in my day.  Half the time I don’t even bother to my close my eyes and I’m too concerned about who might be watching, what the gentleman in question is thinking, where we’re going to go for dinner and whether or not I have any chocolate in my purse to actually enjoy myself. That’s not to say that …

Somehow I’m 17 Again…

In the immortal words of Avril Lavigne, “So much for my happy ending.”  At 25, I feel rather pathetic to be quoting the Canadian queen of teenage angst—shouldn’t I be beyond that?—but when you’ve spent the past ten minutes curled up in bed and crying for no apparent reason, teenage angst is all you’ve got. I’m not sure where we went wrong, or even if we did, I just know that my insides feel like they’ve been wrung out and not in a particularly good way. (Then again, is there ever a “good way” to have one’s insides wrung out?  Probably not.  Love sucks no matter which way you slice it.) Everything was fine on Friday night once Date #7 and I hit our stride.  I spent Saturday morning in a sort of sleep-deprived euphoria, counting down the hours till I’d get to see him again, and according to his text messages, I wasn’t the only one feeling this way. Unfortunately, things took a turn for the worse Saturday afternoon.  I invited him to join …

Romancing the West (Date #7, Part 2)

Seeing as the Philadelphia Museum of Art is my go-to date, I know exactly where a first kiss ought to take place.  There are several possibilities, actually: the second floor opposite the staircase where the windows overlook the Parkway, any one of the gazebos that flank the building, or even the staircase itself (and this, if you’re on your second glass of wine and wearing heels is probably your best option). Well, Date #7 totally ruins my plans.  When the band finishes its first set, he takes me by the hand and leads me down the steps to the prints and drawings gallery, which boasts a new exhibition called “Romancing the West.” I know all about “Romancing the West” because the curator gave an entire PowerPoint on this very subject during the museum’s Press Preview last month.  I decide to share some of the curator’s more salient points with Date #7 only to discover that I can’t actually remember anything (aside from “They had really good food at the Press Preview”) so we talk about …

After He Invites Me In…

So, getting back to Saturday’s date: after flailing around at the rock gym, we go for Mexican food, drive back to his place and decide, after several awkward suggestions, to head downstairs and watch a movie. Now everyone knows that “watch a movie” is code for “make out” and this is fine by me.  It’s our third date and despite the lack of sparks, My 50th Date is growing on me.  He’s polite, he’s been a good sport about my split personality approach to rock climbing and he’s definitely cute. Part of me is still hung up on Date #7 (the man from across the state) but I’m trying to be less crazy these days and on this particular occasion, “less crazy” translates to “I will NOT sabotage this relationship simply because I’m not ready to run off and live happily ever after with this guy.” So I follow My 50th Date downstairs, take a seat on the couch and begin to wonder how exactly this is going to work.  Aside from our after-dinner kiss …

It’s Gettin’ Hot in Here

You ask me to me to meet you for a drink, so I do.  You ask me not to write about it, so I don’t.  You remind me that there’s a dress code so I don my grandmother’s pearls and a teal dress borrowed from my mother.  You tell me to meet you at seven o’clock so I walk to Christian Street and hail a cab.  You instruct me to give my name at the entrance (“They’ll escort you”) so I do, and there I see your name scribbled on a sticky tab next to mine. I’m told to head straight back; that I’ll find you at the bar, second door to my right, but I don’t see you just yet.  In my high heels and belted raincoat, I’m an anomaly amongst the dozens of men in their business suits, and I can’t quite believe that I’m here of all places, meeting you of all people, but I keep walking. And there you are.  In a gray suit.  Your hair has grown longer since I’ve …

To Have and To Hold

I’m back at Good Karma, my new Favorite Coffee Shop, enjoying (or rather admiring) my new Favorite Source of Caffeine (Karma’s mocha lattes are just too pretty to drink!) and having crossed through Temple’s campus on the bus home from Germantown, I find myself rather preoccupied by the subject of PDAs. Public Displays of Affection are as ubiquitous as hoodies and Nalgene bottles American college campus (and, if my two and a half years in the UK are of any indication, PDAs are ubiquitous everywhere).  That’s not to say that I’m in any position to judge; I certainly engaged in my fair share of collegiate canoodling, but I would like to offer (in lieu of My Single Male Friend Friday) a few thoughts on the subject. In this day and age, it seems that hand holding is the real sign of commitment. Anyone can kiss.  Anyone can have sex.  But holding hands?  In the broad daylight?  Fully clothed and sober?  That’s the real test. I can’t remember the last time I held hands. According to …