While I was at Terri's the other day, I saw a commercial that said the average person has had 28 first kisses.
"How do they know?" I scoffed.
"They surveyed like ten people, and that was the average," Terri calmly explained.
"I don't think I could even name every person I've had a 'first kiss' with," I said with disdain.
"I could!" she declared.
By Terri's reasoning, if you averaged someone like her: a serial monogamist who has been with her now-husband since her early twenties--with someone like me: an exuberant kisser, who has been single all but nine years of my adult life--you are likely to get an average of 28.
As I pondered this, I started to think that maybe I was a first-kiss slut. I remember many a party in my youthful days where I handed out kisses like candy.
If you were having a bad day, I might try to kiss it better.
If you were having a great day, I might kiss you in celebration.
If you asked me for a kiss, I would most likely acquiesce to your request.
If Prince's song "Kiss" came over the speakers, I might kiss Terri. (And yes, she kissed me back!)
"They probably polled like 10 people and came up with their average," she said--throwing me a bone.
While I wanted to feel bad about handing out kisses in such a cavalier fashion, I just couldn't muster the requisite remorse. And tonite I remembered why.
As I was leaving Gracie's, I walked past a jaunty fellow who, in addition to being a sharp dresser with a charming southern accent, sort of stepped in my way as if to stop me.
"You look familiar...have we met?" I asked, after a double take (and sort of falling into his arms).
"I don't know. Did we make out once?" was his reply.
"I don't think so," I said, "but you never know."
"There's only one way to find out," he quipped.
And thus commenced a first kiss. An anonymous and entirely pleasant first kiss.
As we parted, we both smiled--with a twinkle in our eyes--and I continued out the front door into the cold of a January Utah nite.