When it's January in Minnesota you have two choices--wear a coat that's twice the weight of your body mass or freeze to death. I chose the heavy coat. As did my girlfriend.
It was 1982 and I was a high school senior. "Jane" and I had been dating for about four months. Being a shy kid, I decided it was time for our first kiss, even if it was only to say goodnight. After a mediocre movie and a light snack, we got into my two-door '71 Buick, which was almost as wide as it was long.
I sheepishly looked over at her leaning against the passenger door and said invitingly, "You can move over if you want." She looked at me with a grin on her face, and said, "OK." Of course, the car was so wide; it took her roughly 90 seconds to slide herself next to me.
With one hand on the steering wheel, I attempted to hook my arm around her shoulder. But, since she was also wearing a heavy coat, the best I could do was wrap my arm around her at a 45-degree angle.
So, here I was, driving back to her place, with my left hand on the steering wheel, and my other hand pointing out the back window. I held this position until I drove into her driveway--about five miles. It felt like 50. The entire way to her house I wondered how I would ask her for a good-night kiss.
I pulled into her driveway and shut off the car. I gazed into her eyes, and nervously asked for permission to give her a good-night kiss. She looked back at me and said, "OK." Jane was a girl of few words.
That was my cue to action. I half turned toward her, wrapped my left arm around her as best I could, trying desperately to get into the right position to kiss her. Then for a few eternal moments, I panicked. I couldn't reach her lips. There was too much "coat material" between us.
Somehow in the ensuing, fumbling seconds, I managed to get my lips connected to hers and I kissed her. She turned her head, looked out the front window, and said without enthusiasm, "Was that it?" That was our first kiss, our last kiss, and our last date. A week later, she broke off our relationship.
I didn't mind losing the girl. But somewhere in a junkyard in Minnesota, in the driver's side of a '71 Buick sits all the masculinity I acquired in my first 18 years of life. I'd kind of like to get it back.
Greg Kriefall is a writer living in Orlando, Fla. He's still working on becoming a better kisser. Copyright WSN Press, Campus Crusade for Christ, Inc., 1997-2001 Used by permission of WSN Press and Campus Crusade for Christ. All rights reserved. WSN Press, Campus Crusade for Christ--2500, 100 Lake Hart Dr., Orlando, FL 32832 USA.
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