Whoever came up with
this week's
Monday Listicles is brilliant (I think it was Bridget at
Twinisms). I can't even do the listicles
the standard way because when I started writing my list, there was
just
too much
entertainment at my
expense coming out on the paper. So, I'm going to make this
into a memoir of sorts, in a 10 part mini-series, just like the
Thorn
Birds, but different. Well, maybe more like
Roots. Nah,
it's nothing like Roots.
Roots only had eight parts.
I'll try to post one part of my
mini-series every Tuesday. That's my goal. And goals are made to be
broken – no, that's records. Well, maybe I'll break a record and
actually post these on consecutive Tuesdays.
Anyway, these are My Firsts, in no particular
order, other than chronological.
First Movie (That Scared the Crap
Out of Me at Age 5)
First Boy That Liked Me – It was
in Kindergarten (they start early in Virginia … you know what the
state motto is, right.)
First Solo Drive (Around the block)
First Car (I drove to School) – Hint: It wasn't a Porsche.
First Alcoholic Beverage (It Wasn't a Fuzzy Navel, and I wasn't 21, as evidenced by #6)
-
First Job (at Wild & Wooly)
First Time Away at College (I cried for three weeks)
First Car (I purchased) – a.k.a. The Saturd
First Kiss On The Beach...Highway (Under a Street Light)
We went on a family trip with my dad to
Holden Beach, North Carolina, in the summer of 1985. I was 13 years
old. The trip included my dad's family: aunts, uncles, cousins,
grandma, and a friend for each of the teenagers. (Don't worry, I
didn't make-out with one of my cousins. This wasn't my West Virginia
side of the family – that's my mom's side.)
There was a beach store and arcade a
few houses down from us. That's where I first saw him. Hunched over
a game of Ms. Pac-Man. I remember his sun-bleached hair, brown
eyes, and red, peeling nose, like it was yesterday. After watching
him for a while, and with nudging from my cousin and our friends (and
the simple fact that I would be gone from that place in a week, and
never to be seen again by anyone there), I walked over, leaned against Ms.
Pac-Man and gave my best pick-up line (yes, I picked him up.):
“You're really good. ...You look like this boy I like back home.”
I know what you're thinking. That is
the stupidest pick up line in the history of pick-up lines. I agree.
Which is why girls shouldn't pick-up boys (or at least I shouldn't - thank goodness I'm married now - and my husband flirted with me first anyway. Oh, yes you did!!!). And besides, I had a
history of saying stupid things to guys I liked. When I was alone
with my first boyfriend on our backyard porch swing, I thrust my arm
in his face and told him to smell it. I had put on Love's Baby Soft and
wanted him to enjoy it too. (Which just happens to be the same guy that called me
once and my sister told him I couldn't come to the phone because I
was “on the commode.” I'm pretty sure I didn't kill her after
that because she's still alive and has all her body parts.) This is
also evidence for why 13-year olds are too young to date. Because
they say stupid things.
But, the beauty of this pick-up line
was that that it worked. At 13, if someone of the opposite sex even
acknowledges your presence, no matter how stupidly they say it, that
leaves you wanting more.
His name was Eddie. Eddie B. We hung
out for the week we were at the beach. The only challenging part was
that even though he liked me, he also liked my cousin's best friend
(the little fart – she was only 12. And prettier. So, naturally,
I hated her...at least when Eddie B was around). So, we did what all
12- and 13-year old girls do when vying for the same boy they met at
the beach. We shared him. However reluctantly.
Eddie B went back and forth between us
the entire week. And you know one week of beach vacation in teen
time is equivalent to something like two years in adult time. So one day he was going with me (months, if I were an adult), and the
next day he was going with cuz's BFF (months without him), then the
next day, back to me (more totally awesome no-crying-on-my
beach-house-rock-hard-pillow-at-night months), then back to the hussy
(they're-both-complete-jerks-and-I-hate-them months).
The week drew to a close. On our last
night, my cousin, our friends, and Eddie B and I walked back from the
beach store/arcade to our house. It was time to say good-bye. Cuz's
BFF and I took turns. I went first. Eddie B and I talked for a few
minutes and then he asked if he could kiss me. Or maybe I asked if I
could kiss him. I don't remember. It doesn't matter because either
way, right there, under the beacon of the street light, cars driving past on the beach highway, 20 feet
from my cousin and our friends, I had my first kiss.
It was wonderful and awkward and
thrilling. We talked a few more minutes, then my turn was over, as decided for me by the group (my cousin/friends) ahead of us, waving for me to come. I
walked the 20 feet ahead to relinquish my turn. My
cousin's friend took her turn. (Muttered Choice word!) We
walked ahead. I didn't turn around. My heart cringed at the thought
of them kissing. His heart belonged to me, not her.
Soon, her turn was over. And I decided
I wasn't done and needed another turn. I needed to take full advantage of the situation. So, I went back 20 feet to
where he was and kissed him again, under another beacon of street light, cars driving past on the beach
highway, 20 feet from my cousin and our friends. Looking back,
I wonder if my dad ever dreamed his daughter was out on the
highway, a few houses down, making out with a boy under a street light. Gosh, I hope not. That's embarrassing. (Well, Dad, now you know.)
I wanted to give Eddie B my address and
kicked myself for not having paper (because all 13-year olds carry
around paper, right?). I told him I would leave it under the mat
outside the beach house where we stayed. He promised to pick it up
the next day.
Back home, the next few days were
exciting and brutal. I ran to the mailbox every day. Nothing. It
went on like that for a week, two weeks, then three. I mourned. I knew he
hadn't picked up the envelope with my letter and address. But I
tried to convince myself that it must have been the cleaning person
who got it (and laughed at it), or maybe his parents whisked him away
before he could get to it, or it got wet in the rain, and the words
were smeared and he couldn't read it. Whatever it was, we lost
contact. I mourned. I hoped he mourned.
But, then I started liking
another boy. And promptly forgot about Eddie B.
But, may I never forgot
my first kiss.
 |
This was taken right after our first kiss.
Is that a hickey on my neck? |
This is how 13-year olds pose for a
camera when they are in like. My husband saw this
picture and said, “who's the girl with you?”
I rolled my eyes and said, “That's
not a girl, that's Eddie B.”
