Well, this is awkward.  Today’s prompt from NaBloPoMo is –

Tell us about your first kiss.

So.

Just how personal (read vulnerable) do I want to be here in internet land?  How much of my past do I want to reveal?  And the larger question, do I even remember my first kiss?

The answer to the last question is, “No. No, I do not remember my first kiss.”  I do however, remember my first boyfriend.  And I remember a much later boyfriend and a first kiss that mattered much more.  I’ll tell the story of the first boyfriend, but not the story of the later boyfriend (no, it was not LightHusband) … it’s only the interesting people who have a checkered past, you know 😉 .

I have a theory about the eighth grade and being 13.  It is the year one is at one’s most stupid/foolish during adolescence.  That is the year when we engage in the silliest behaviors. Some children chose a path that year which will make all of adolescence and highschool difficult.  Others manage to regain their footing and continue through the teen years on a more even, yet still turbulent, keel.  I was part of the latter group.  I have several friends from eighth (and even seventh or sixth grade) who I maintain contact with.  We all shake our collective heads regretfully when recalling eighth grade.  It was not a good year.

In particular, my one of my very best friends (maid of honor in each other’s weddings, etc.) and I both “went out” with boys when we were in eighth grade.  This begs the question, where did we go?  We grew up in the hills of Vermont.  It was a 20 minute drive to our highschool (grades 7-12 and it drew from 5 towns).  How, exactly, do 13 year olds go on a date?  It was crazy.  Mostly we were in love with an idea.  So, here is the sad, embarrassing story of my eighth grade romance.

He was in ninth grade and an older boy.  Blonde hair, blue eyes … the only blonde I would ever date.  He played saxophone in the band, and I played flute, so I expect that is how we knew one another.  He gave me his ID bracelet to wear as a pledge of his daily troth and short-lived like.  I don’t remember much about our relationship except that when it was over, I was embarrassed by it.  What was I thinking?  There are three events in our relationship that stand out.  The first is that one day he came over to my house to “hang out” for a while.  We disappeared into the hayshed to “make out.”  It was a huge disappointment to me.  Neither one of us knew what we were doing, so it was just kissing (this was good), but the kissing was bad (this was probably also good).  I remember thinking that if this was all there was to kissing and making out, I didn’t see what the big deal was; it was sort of boring.  [Never fear, I found out otherwise later in life ;-)]

The second event was a time when my brothers and I were going to see Young Frankenstein (with Gene Wilder).  The 8GBF and I tried to turn it into a date.  This was quashed.  I was furious with my mother.  But the movie was so funny, I got over it quickly.

The last event was breaking up.  I was free.  I ran to tell my friends.  Here was something that I had wanted so badly, but it had become a shackle around my neck.   I never regretted breaking up with him.  Oddly, I was always slightly embarrassed by the relationship until writing this blog post.  Now, I’m inclined to think that perhaps we were necessary to each others’ growing up.  Maturing is hardly ever easy, sometimes we are assisted by the mostly unlikely of people.