Enough of that--on to the good stuff...well, the mediocre stuff at least. Seems like the topic lately is dating. I don't know why, unless it's that holiday thing where everyone takes stock of themselves, their love lives, etc. Whatever the reason, people are sharing their dating philosophies/histories. Mine should be pretty easy.
My dating philosophy: I don't do it. The quick and easy reason is that once, some time ago, I found the true meaning of love. Shortly after that, I found the other true meaning of love--the one where my heart was ripped from my chest and held up so I could still see it beating before it was thrown to the ground and crushed under a stylish leather boot. That's the short story. The long story is very gory and filled with expletives.
Now, of course, I can make jokes about it, but at the time, I felt a lot like Ralph Wiggum in that Simpsons episode--I was sure that if someone ran a videotape of my life in slow-motion, they would be able to find that exact, telling moment:
BART: "Watch this, Lis. You can actually pinpoint the second when his heart rips in half!"
--"I Love Lisa"; season four
The dating history is somewhat of a roller coaster ride. I think part of the problem is that I used up a good deal of the dating mojo too fast. As a very young man of about five, I had plenty of girlfriends. If you've read past posts, you'll know that in school, I was a bit of a prodigy. I guess school wasn't the only place where I was ahead of the others. I can remember getting caught by my mother while my first girlfriend, Kathy H., and I were naked in my bedroom. I can remember getting in trouble for making out with my other first girlfriend Bobbie Jo J. on the way to the planetarium. My kindergarten experience was such that had I known then who Hugh Hefner was, I very well might have attended school clad in a smoking jacket and beechwood bubble pipe.
Fast forward to about twelve. Summer camp. Remarkably enough, I still had pull with the opposite sex, although I didn't know it. I remember those two weeks fondly--my first slow dance, with a girl who will always occupy a special place in my heart, and who was later taken from us by anorexia. And one of the best stories, too: When my parents came to pick me up, my mother asked me if I had had a good time. As if on cue, two of the cute girls from the camp (okay, one cute, one cute but psychotic) came running up and said goodbye by kissing me slowly and softly on the mouth and arguing over who liked me more. Mom just looked at me as if I had grown a third arm. "Well," she said, "it seems you did." That, by the way, was the last time I attended camp.
I'll throw in one more before leaving this land of milk and honeys to venture forth into what I call "The Lean Years." But this one was an important one. Amy, my first love. And even though I don't believe in it, it was love at first sight. I was...seventeen? I think that's right. I remember two things about her. The first is that I loved to loan her my jacket because whenever I got it back, it would smell like her, and I would be loath to wear it myself, lest the thing picked up my brutish scent. The other thing I remember is our first kiss. I mean, I remember every little detail. I remember that it was raining out, lightly. There was this eerie glow over everything because of a green garage light above us. I remember the familiar smell of her and the taste of her lips and tongue, and most surprising of all, I remember these tingling jolts of...what? Electricity? Pleasure? Maybe a mixture of both. They ran through my body and I felt alive, energized. Driving home that night, I couldn't stop shaking, like I couldn't possibly hold everything in. Had I come across a late-night traveler with a flat tire, I swear it would have been "Pffft... don't bother with that jack," and I would have lifted the thing off the ground with one hand.
They say all good things must come to an end, and this was no exception. College, and distance, and quickly fading youth all conspired against us. And whatever thoughts about her I hold today, I will say this: never again, after any physical contact with any woman, did I feel the way I did after that first kiss with Amy.
I know we're not supposed to kiss and tell...er, show, but I love this picture of her.
(After discussing it with some friends, I decided that it was best (respectful-wise)to remove the picture.)
Besides, I haven't heard from her in years. If she wants me to take it down, she can write me.
Okay, I need to take a break and steel my resolve before round two, where things get harder, and where you can really increase your scoring...although I didn't.