I'm 30. I'm looking for my last first kiss.
Eons away from days spent pouring over the details and discussing it wildly with chitteringly gleeful hopefuls playing with little girl toys, talking big girl dreams. Well past the age where I'm taken to distant places by the idea of my first kiss. Or, for that matter, a first kiss. Any. Her first kiss, they kissed, would you kiss...blank? Fill in the name and pass it back to me. Top secret.
Mine was outside during a school dance with a boy and attended by no less than twelve people. It was so easy! So...planned. And it could be: the date, the time, the place compiled by a group of young people and brought to fruition by a pair as unmatched as the lost sock under your dryer to mine. You weren't sure what to do about on-lookers, but you sure knew what you had to do to keep your eye on the prize. You had to do M.A.S.H. The outcome of which you could bet a friendship, a 'totally awesome' cool thing was spoiled by trend possibly days later or even cross-your-heart-and-hope-to-die about. Fate had been decided, no doubt, at the lunch table, then all you had to do was show up.
Any first kiss, at it's inception is full of promise.
Times have changed, yet I haven't learned much. I still get whisked off to a place where things and people and timing is just right where nobody worries about why and everyone knows what is. Kisses? Sure, they're in there. And there's still a committee that decides or at least reviews these things in my life. We don't convene at recess (lie) or at sleepovers (lie) or play with toys (lie) or swoon over videos, but we YouTube the shit out of them. Remember that? Me, too. When the committee's on recess, there's a fair amount of movies to fill my head with deceptively simple romance in case I forget about it or try to ignore it. This means you, Cameron Crowe. Why you gotta go making movies that make me consider these things are possible?
And when it isn't? I mean, if there aren't any on-lookers or rooters or fortune-telling pages from a notebook involved. When we're one boombox and one trench coat short of Lloyd Dobbler. What then? What now?
Now we wait.