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 I haven’t conducted “significant fieldwork in that department” (and that’s a direct quote from one of my BFFs across the pond), because I have. Most definitely. But if you haven’t noticed by now, I’m a bit highly strung. Like ridiculously highly strung. It takes a lot to knock my socks off—not because I don’t want them to get knocked off but because you actually have to relax in order for that to happen and as you’ve most definitely noticed by now, relaxing isn’t exactly my forte.
Prior to meeting Date #7, I can recall three and only three times when I’ve actually given myself over to a kiss. The first was with my first boyfriend; we were standing on a dock in the middle of a rainstorm in upstate New York and, well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that kissing in the rain is a cinematic moment in the making. Plus, I was 17. Everything is exciting when you’re 17.
Number two was in Germany—a youth hostel in Munich, to be precise—and it was my birthday and I’d gone out drinking with my brother and a fellow backpacker from Australia. I’ve had a thing for Australians ever since.
Last but not least we have the man I dated in Baltimore during my senior year in college. We were in the parking garage at Fell’s Point and there were these god-awful fluorescent lights and that god-awful parking garage smell but I just did not care. A good kiss can do that to you—if you let it.
Since the launch of my experiment last August, I’ve kissed exactly… well, perhaps I’ll keep that particular statistic to myself but I will say this: none of them managed to knock my socks off. I’ve just glanced over at my spreadsheet as I’m writing this, to make sure I hadn’t forgotten a particularly noteworthy connection, and I’m just like, “Him… eh. Him? No. Him? No… No… No… Definitely not.”
Then we get to Date #7. At this point the writer in me is tempted to go all romance novel and wax poetic about our “tour” of the American Wing at the Philadelphia Museum of Art but I’m not going to do that to him so just picture me in some sort of Harlequin romance outfit and him bare-chested and wearing leather pants or whatever the guys are always wearing on the cover of those books and you’ll get an idea as to how I was feeling just then…
Got it? Good. See you tomorrow.