One of the benefits of being old as dirt is that my kids somehow forget I was once young.  Like them.  And that I was an actual person instead of some miniature version of my adult self.

I think it blows their minds a little when these concepts collide.  Kind of like trying to wrap your brain around that whole time travel thing: you can go back in time, but if you run into yourself you’ll create a tear in the space time continuum, and every single thing you do has the potential to alter life as you know it in the present day, and when you return then aren’t there really two of you bouncing around the world now?

See?  Too much to process.

We had one of those jaw dropping, shock and awe moments this spring.  A time when both kids stopped what they were doing to turn and stare at me in stunned silence followed by a startled “REALLY?”

It may have had something to do with me telling them when I had my first kiss.

How on earth does that come up in conversation, you ask?  Well…

Last month T-man dropped the bombshell that there were fifth graders (brace yourselves, y’all) kissing.  Or talking about kissing.  Or making plans to kiss.  Apparently there’s a whole lotta hormones rolling around that joint.  Naturally, being a writer, I blogged about it here (which means someday my kid’s gonna stumble across it and want to kill me).

At any rate, I’d reacted a bit…strongly to T-man’s news at first but then made the offhand comment that I guess it wasn’t all that crazy.  After all, I’d had my first kiss in the sixth grade.

There was a millisecond in which my children turned to stone, staring at me aghast as they tried to reconcile the do your chores-brush your teeth-is your homework done mom with some sixth grader from the dark ages who’d actually kissed a boy.  I don’t think they had much luck and, considering the fact that no one asked any questions, I don’t think they especially wanted the visual.

But it got me thinking…

I’m pretty sure any of you who grew up in the 70s have a decent shot at guessing where I was for my first kiss.  Any tries?  Anybody?

It was the most happening hangout on a Friday or Saturday night for the under sixteen crowd.

That’s right…the roller skating rink.  Because nothing screams ideal kissing opportunity like a hundred kids crammed into a dark building, music blasting, a disco ball throwing light everywhere, and wheels on your feet.

Yeah, that part was kind of questionable.  But one doesn’t question fate, and apparently fate had decided that my first kiss would include the desperate hope that I wouldn’t fall down during the process.

It was sixth grade, a year of awkward gawkiness and hair that was nowhere near as cool as I wanted it to be.  We ran in packs – four to six girls hanging out for the night, giggling whenever a boy we liked skated by.  My friends were brimming with tween fearlessness, whispering madly with me as I tried to get up the courage to kiss a boy named Rodger.

Yes, seriously, Rodger.  I have no explanation.  Except it was 1982.

We must have had fourteen powwows, gathering at the snack bar and in dark corners, planning my brave step into the boyfriend world.  I peppered my friends for advice which, as we all know, was about as misguided as sixth grade advice can be.

It was nerve-wracking and clumsy and ridiculously graceless, set to music so loud I could feel it reverberating in my ribcage, and I truly was terrified that I’d fall down.  But it was also magical, in a heady I can’t believe I actually kissed him sort of way.  It didn’t hurt that we held hands for a couples skate afterward…

I think everyone deserves a really great first kiss story.  Who else has got one to share?