First Kiss Follow-up

Last week I went home for a few days to see my family and attend my cousin's wedding. It was great to see my parents and brothers again, having not seen them since the hectic week of my own wedding.

My father brought up the topic of my blog the second day I was there. I know my mother has been reading this since my first post (Hi, Mom!), but I assumed my father simply skimmed it if he even looked at it at all. I was excited to hear his analysis, but what he had to say only reassured me, once again, that I am my father's daughter.

I was waiting for a comment on improper grammar or language usage, but, instead, he exclaimed, "I did the exact same thing for my first kiss!" Apparently, an inability to think on one's toes when the big moment was upon us is, in fact, a genetic trait. I wonder if I will pass this on to any of my children, and when will it be appropriate to ask them if they did the same thing as their mother and grandfather had. Will it ruin my relationship with them if I stand in wait at the door while they are on their first dates and pounce like a puma that hasn't eaten in weeks when they step foot in the house? I'd be doing it for science!

Geneticists across the globe would thank me for my groundbreaking work!
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You disagree? Really?
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Well, I think they would, loyal readers. I think they would.

Oh, DNA, why do you have such a strange sense of humor?

First Kiss Fail

I'm sitting at my desk attempting to write up wall notes for the museum's upcoming exhibit on WWI, but am happily sidetracked by this link from Cute Overload in my RSS feed:

Awkward First Kiss

It brings back memories of my first kiss. I will admit to the world here that it was horribly awkward and I was the only one to blame. I had seen plenty of kissing scenes in movies, on tv, and witnessed a few pecks in real life, so one would think I would have been prepared for the big moment. Hardly. (Warning: Serious embarrassment ahead!)

He was an experienced, older boy, while I was new to the world of kissing. We were sitting on a couch in my parents' basement and, if memory serves, we had just finished watching Seven. Horror films are supposed to be great first date movies because they get your adrenaline going and the fear makes you want to be closer to someone. I don't recall the exact details that led to the kiss, but, boy, do I remember the kiss.

He leaned in, ready for the kill. I froze. Literally, froze. Mouth open. Eyes open. Breathing stopped.

We might as well have been twins.

After a solid attempt on his part to involve me in this event, he pulled away. There was no beautiful moment of looking into each other's eyes with a slow smile of satisfaction curling on our mouths. No, I just gasped for oxygen. Heaving gasps of desperation. Why he decided to date me for another couple of years is beyond me.

I haven't had any complaints since that horrendous first attempt. I'd like to think that I improved tremendously since that fated evening in my parents' basement. You'll have to ask one of the poor men with whom I had lip-locking sessions with. Or ask my husband, who will be beaten if anything other than "amazing" or "perfect" escape from his mouth.