This is what I like to consider a motivational post. Not really for you, but rather to hopefully motivate me to post something else soon so that this one doesn't remain at the top of the page.
Travel back with me if you will, to a simpler time: 1989. Tone-Loc was in his prime. I may or may not have still been tight-rolling my 550 Levis. And I didn't know nearly as much about girls as I do now -- which, granted, still isn't... well, anyway.
I was teacher aide for Coach A's 8th grade social studies class. I mean, come on -- a coach's class, 8th grade girls swooning (in my mind) over me, a junior -- I had it all. Plus, I loved grading papers. In fact, if I could go back and do it all over again, I'd have been a teacher. Or a writer. Or maybe a professional Scrabble player.
Anyway, for some reason, I had a rep as a good student, so Coach A would let me leave the classroom pretty much whenever I wanted. It just so happens a girl I kinda liked was an office aide for the assistant principal at the same time. (In fact, now that I think about it, it's possible the impetus for our entire "relationship" was that we were both aides during the same period. Sigh. Love was so simple then.)
So at some point during that year, we started sneaking out into the hall to make out. To that point, it was the wildest thing I'd ever done.
There is but one caveat to this story: we never used our tongues.
The first time was awkward, as you might imagine. Subsequent make out sessions were downright uncomfortable.
Now some of you might be wondering, how is that even possible -- tongue-less making out? Let me see if I can describe it.... You both have your mouths open. Your lips are touching. But nothing's crossing the border.
Now imagine doing that for what felt like... fifteen seconds. Maybe thirty. Each time.
It's kinda like non-invasive surgery. Laparoscopic kissing! That's what it was.
At this point it strikes me to ask the question, can it even be considered making out if you don't use your tongue? I should create an urban dictionary term for a tongue-less make out session. We could just called it a "bone." Hmph, turns out that term is already in use. Oh well.
Back to our story of young love, or... something. As one might expect, with the absence of a papillae-and-taste bud-covered apparatus as part of our steamy 6th-period trysts, our romance fizzled within a few weeks.
I wonder if she ever told anyone about us. What am I saying? Of course she did. Girls tell everything! She probably told all the girls in our class, which might help explain why I only dated girls from other schools for the remainder of my high school career. And suddenly I wonder if any of this had anything to do with my dating drought of '93!
It's good to reminisce, isn't it?
Today, anytime someone asks me to describe what it was like to be living in those days, to be, quote, "heading for the nineties, living in the wild, wild West," needless to say, this is not the story I tell.
(Editor's note: When I write the Revisionist History Of Me: Volume 4, I
will have been thirteen years old when all this occurred, and she will have
been sixteen. And my babysitter.)
"Dancin' meant everything. We were young and we were improvin'. Laughin', laughin', with our friends. Holdin' hands meant somethin', baby..."