I chose to share this one again because my teammates have been non-stop threatening to chase me down and lick me with wild abandon at the Mudder because they know how much I hate such things.
It was a first kiss from the movies, I tell you.
And I’m talking more of the National Lampoon’s variety. Not some Nicholas Spark film.
It happened exactly one year ago. And by exactly, I mean anywhere from 9 months to 15 months ago. I have no idea. I just know that I’ve been waiting to write about it until enough time had passed that this girl has to have long stopped caring about me or my blog because I don’t want her to think it was a, ummm… I don’t know… bad experience for me?
And it wasn’t a bad experience. At all. It was a fantastic experience because it has given me a funny story to tell for life, even if in the moment I nearly cried from trying not to choke on the awkwardness of it.
She was a cute little thang. Picture a cross between Demi Moore and Miley Cyrus. Weird cross, I know, but that’s what she was. Of course, my only comparison is that Moore and Cyrus are both women, one of whom terrifies me, one of whom doesn’t as much. Other than that, I suppose there was very little to compare. In fact, she probably looked nothing like either one of them.
We were on a second date. I invited her over for dinner at my place, which you single people know is code for, I invited her over to make-out.
I mean… I invited her over to my place for dinner. Period. There was absolutely nothing else on my mind that night. Innocent as can be here.
Dinner was great. I whipped up some amazing shrimp scampi. We dined. We laughed. We got along fantastically. We cleaned up. We moved to the couch to… umm… talk…
And then it happened.