Not sure about this month of confessions anymore. Picture me as you read this. I’m typing a few letters then pausing while I try to work out how I can get out of writing this post. It seems I can’t. So here goes.
I was sixteen. A late bloomer I guess, by today’s standards anyway. It was the mid-90s where thrift store men’s pants and knitted vests reigned supreme. I listened to Nirvana and Stone Temple Pilots and painted my nails crimson. I was a bit of a nerd with a huge inner life and not much of an outer one. I have some diaries from that time and they’re full of big dreams and long rants professing my outrage over something I’d seen on the news. When I read them I want to say, I see you. I also want to say, Buckle up, girly, your life is about to change.
My husband was my first boyfriend and my first kiss. We were in a room in front of a frosted glass window. It was night outside, but inside it was lit up by one of those bulbs that hang down from the ceiling by the wire. The kiss wasn’t great (sorry, husband, but it’s true. You know it is. We both got better with practice). I thought we were in a private space but when we broke apart, cheers and taunts rang out through the night. We were a perfect silhouette in front of that frosted window; two awkward shadow puppets bumping lips. It’s not a very exciting first kiss story but it’s mine, and I told it.