Friday, August 25, 2006

To All The Boys I've Loved Before

About five years ago, inspired by more than a little wine, a friend and I sat in her Annapolis house and made a list of every person we'd ever been on a date with. This was a challenge, but we did it, and then both sat studying our respective lists (starred and, ahem, astericked appropriately).

Mine started in second grade (I have very low expectations for a date). The first entry on my list was Donald, who if I remember correctly, was my boyfriend for about five minutes, during which time he requested to see my panties and I declined. So he broke up with me. He just was not that into me.

My next crush was Stanley Campbell. By then I'd graduated to knowing more last names than just the teacher's. Stanley Campbell did not know I existed, despite the fact that there were only about twenty kids in our class. Instead, he seemed to be very well aware of the existence of my best friend, who tutored me on the way home on what I needed to do to gain his affection. Tight jeans were near the top of the list. I was in third grade and my jeans came from Sears. I did not win Stanley Campbell.

My first kiss was with a boy in a grade lower enough from mine that even now I decline to admit what our respective ages were. I maintain that he was tall for his age. Additionally, he lived in the neighborhood, it was summer, we were all too young to drive, and my neighborhood was annoyingly girl heavy. So we made out in his parent's garage, if the definition of making out can be mashing your lips together for a minute and wondering why this isn't pleasurable.

My first real kiss, ironically enough, was also with a neighborhood boy. A few years had passed and thankfully some new houses were built and purchased by families who had sons. The girls practically threw a parade. One of those sons was older than me; a senior (I didn't rob the cradle my entire kissing career). A senior who was not a virgin like me. This did not deter me from inviting him over to my parent's house while they were at Bible Study (Bible. Study. Everything you've heard about preacher's kids is apparently true).

Senior boy strode in my house, up the stairs, and led me confidently to my parent's bedroom, with me babbling, "Have you met my father? Do you remember that he's 6'4? Beefy? Will I have enough time between the opening of the garage door and my parents coming in the house to get you out the back door?"

This made for less than romantic banter. He kissed me (thoroughly, I always like to say with flourish, but to be honest I didn't know what being kissed thoroughly was back then and in hindsight, eh, not so much). And then he got up and left (via the back door in case neighbors were watching).

My first real, romantic kiss, the kind born of budding love, was later. And better. And then of course is the best kiss of my life, provided, actually, by my husband. I've told him the whens and whys, and he believes me, particularly because I followed up by informing him that my most romantic date occured when I was seventeen, although my husband's are really high ranking, I swear).

It's nice to look back and remember who I was, and how these people I may have shared a crayon box or years of affection with contributed to who I've become. In all, when I remember that list (which we ultimately baptised by fire, another wine inspired decision), it is mostly with a smile.

To all the boys I've loved before: honey, I hope you're well. :)


Tulips said...

This was an especially good read!

Anonymous said...

I loved it, I loved it, I loved it!
(your secret pal)