First Kiss(es)

All first kisses should involve matching nordic sweaters.

My first kiss moment occurred when I was but a lass of 15. Astyn B. was hosting an end-of-the-year party on her parent’s farm. (I don’t count the one inside the Kindergarten playhouse from Dylan or the time Tadd F. pinned me down in the gym in 3^rd grade.) For most of the night I had been flirting with Josh P. as adeptly as any newly minted sophomore can (I’m sure he remembers my suave moves a bit differently). He was one of the taller boys with brown eyes that I thought revealed a very deep teenage soul. He had such style about him in his polyester Adidas shirt, which had a melted spot where the bonfire spark landed. It was one of a collection. GQ model material right there.

I remember how the defeat washed over me when Astyn told me my parents had arrived to bring me home. All of the progress I made that night would come undone over an entire summer spent in separate towns with no hope of an accidental cafeteria run-in. In the next moment my disappointment vanished as Josh grabbed my arm, turned me around and planted a passionate, tight-lipped kiss on my surprised mouth. It was like kissing a Muppet, Burt or Kermit the Frog or one of the other ones without lips (so not Janice). It was…completely thrilling.

I felt like a woman. A tingly, twitterpated woman. I just knew every future kiss would be measured against this electrifying smack.

My relationship with Josh P. blossomed into absolutely nothing after months of “what does it all mean?” and remains a friendship to this day. Despite the anti-climactic conclusion, I remember it as one of my most idyllic first kisses.

In girl talks over the past week I’ve discovered that some girls have amazing luck when it comes to their various first kisses. One friend has had inaugural pucker moments during beach walks, moonlit nights and romantic Valentine’s dinners. Another during a Pam & Jim-esque iPod dance. Meanwhile the rest of us get sudden kiss attacks in the midst of watching a movie, booze-soaked smooches and juvenile, “I’m going to kiss you now” moments. No soft embraces as the snow falls around us or passionate moments in the rain after a declaration of love for this girl. It’s probably because I’m not selective enough about the mouths I allow near my face.  

Prior to this conversation, I just assumed over-the-top romantic beginnings didn’t happen outside of grating rom coms. But now my low expectations are shattered. The bar has been raised. Unfortunately, I’m not exactly in a position to be moving any sort of first-kiss bar since the boyfriend wouldn’t likely approve. Maybe I should cut him off from my lips for a week and make him do it all over again. This time as we’re decorating the Christmas tree, Nat King Cole will play in the background and I’ll fall off the ladder I’m using to place the star on top, right into his arms and he will kiss me ever so softly as we laugh in the twinkling lights. Yep. That’s how I want my spontaneous next first kiss to happen.

A Critical Analysis of Romeo & Juliet

Feeling nostalgic, I settled in for a self-indulgent viewing of Baz Luhrman’s Romeo + Juliet (yes Leonardo DiCaprio movies were a major influence on my teen years), and I had two thoughts. The first of which was “Paul Rudd?” Dude had some douchey roles before the world realized he was funny. The second of which is that Shakespeare (or at least misinterpretation of Shakespeare) is solely responsible for everything that is wrong with romantic ideals. I know I’m not the first to realize this, but those kids were nuts. In less than 24 hours of their meet cute they decide they are so madly in love that they must marry, consequences of death, banishment and estranged families be damned.

At least they had their hormones and teenage stupidity to blame. But our dear Friar Lawrence was apparently sampling his potions to the point where he thought their union was a brilliant idea. I understand his desire to make peace between the Montagues and Capulets with their “love,” but trusting a couple of hyper emotional adolescents to end an age-old, violent feud between equally hyper emotional families pushes the bounds of irresponsible to deluded.

The general population actually understands that had Romeo and Juliet lived they would have fallen into a spiral of resentment. Juliet would lose her youthful bloom and Romeo would take to traipsing around fair Verona with his bros likely reconnecting with that little vixen Rosaline along the way. Still, despite this realistic lens, it’s still considered a beautiful story of romance and doomed love.

Maybe it isn’t actually about the magnetic love between two dramatic minors. Maybe Shakespeare was trying to tell us that bad things happen when we let passion control our actions (yeah I know this isn’t a grand epiphany). Throughout the entire play there are approximately 765 occasions where a level head would have prevented every subsequent tragedy. So why is it we overlook the transparent cautionary elements to embrace only the ooey gooey desperate love between two individuals who don’t have sense enough to realize that half a conversation does not lay the proper groundwork for a happy marriage?

As a 13-year-old girlie exploring the pages of Shakespeare, I was mostly too distracted by the poetry of the story to attempt to uncover a deeper moral than something purely romantic. (Say what you will about Shakespeare, the man could turn a phrase.) As an adult, perhaps it’s just easier to brush over the themes of consequence and focus on the strength of their “love.” Maybe I underestimate how many people actually understand that love, in fact, is not the play’s “most important theme.”  (However, if Spark Notes says it, it must be true.) Though perhaps the more likely answer is that the play really is just about two crazy kids who found love fast and early and my cynical perspective is wrongly skewing my understanding of the themes. That or I just really like the idea that rash decisions lead to a situation in which “all art punish’ed” because it’s a damn cool line.

Confessions From the Tragic Love Life of a 16-Year-Old Girl

The hallowed notebook.

One of my best friends from high school recently uncovered our note notebook from our junior year. Reading it ten years later is both hysterical and heartbreaking. Among the heart-dotted eyes, Stereomud lyrics and obnoxious spellings of “nite” there is some insight into what love and boys can do to the delicate psyche of a sensitive 16-year-old girl as she struggles to find her path and figure out who she is along the way. Before I chose to combat heartbreak with sarcastic cynicism, I handled each romantic let-down with raw, unadulterated (if not immature) emotion.

Maybe it was one too many viewings of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo + Juliet (we miss you Pete) or maybe it was my flair for the dramatic as evidenced by my devotion to the theater department and the class’s thespian of the year award, but I took the infancy of my love life very seriously. Basically this resulted in me being a complete idiot for most of my formative years.

The depth of the pit I entered after losing my first “love” is astounding. To read it was actually a bit terrifying. My range of emotions seemed to only include malaise and borderline suicidal. The very thought that this might be normal for any teenage girl makes me never want to procreate. Also, I’d like to sincerely apologize to my parents, friends and teachers for being a melancholy freak show during that time in my life.

Oddly enough I remember my high school years fondly. The absolute depths of despair (for those of you who aren’t lit nerds) that I experienced with every spurned confession of love seems to have escaped my memory completely. Now, looking back at how deeply I let things affect me, I wish that I could journey to that time and impart some serious love knowledge on my wretched younger self.

The pattern of seeking male attention to feel pretty began in those years as I attempted to recover from that first broken heart. I like to think I’ve since outgrown that ridiculous view of my own self worth, but I have to admit it still rears it’s ugly head on the occasional Saturday night. Perhaps if, at 16, I had learned mantention isn’t all it’s cracked up to be I wouldn’t have put up with some of the truly abhorrent relationships I’ve found myself in. Too much of my correspondence with my young friend involved belaboring the idea that ending one relationship meant I would never, ever have another.

I would have taught the poor young miss how to channel the blinding sorrow and angst that accompanies a young break up into a driving passion to better herself. Since emerging from those naïve years where every broken heart was the end of my fragile world, my sense of adventure and purpose is never as strong as it is after I’ve been jilted. Instead of woe-is-me I shall never love again sentiments I’m buoyed by Helen Reddy’s anthem (not really, that song is kind of terrible, but it’s a nice idea). I can’t imagine what I might have accomplished if I had only embraced that philosophy ten years ago. With the sheer volume of broken hearts I’ve endured (I told you I had a flair for the dramatic) I likely could have ended world hunger by now or at least developed nylons that don’t tear within the first 24 hours out of the package.

Honestly, the most heart-wrenching part of reliving these adolescent aches was the sheer disregard other young women had for each other’s struggles. This didn’t pertain to the friend who also laid her soul bear on the pages of our notebook but the other young women who made a cameo appearance or two.

In the midst of some of my (unnecessarily) darkest days, girls I had considered close friends turned on me for reasons now unknown but, most likely, undeniably trivial. Here I was shattered by the enemy gender, and I couldn’t even rely on my fellow Bettys to offer some perspective. So the last piece of advice I have wouldn’t exactly be directed toward miniature me (though I’m sure I have been guilty of betraying my own persuasion at one time or another) but the ones who have sunk a training stiletto into the side of a broken little girl while she’s desperately trying to find her worth outside of a relationship.

In a world where women can, at times, be viewed as disposable by the cruder sex, our friendships (both male and female, actually) are sacred. We should remember this at every age so we can be there to offer up the perspective we so desperately needed at 16.