The last first kiss

John and I recently marked the ninth anniversary of our first date. Like a couple of true Wolverines, our first date was a Rose Bowl party, hosted by friends of some friends of John's.

That first date reaffirmed my belief that dating John might be different than previous guys I'd spent time with. If someone invites you to a Rose Bowl party at a private home, what do you imagine? Sweatshirts, bowls of chili, big bags of Doritos? Try being greeted by a hostess in a black cocktail dress, offering you a brimming full champagne flute, and then having a plate of tuna sashimi for halftime snacks. Expect the unexpected.

When I first met John, I really liked him, but from a first impression, there are no guarantees that this is your life partner. He could just be a funny guy with great legs. I'd been dead wrong about guys before.

Because of that, you never know when you're having your last first kiss. At that point, the relationship might last four more dates or the rest of your life, and all you have is hope and curiosity and the butterflies of attraction.

I was lousy at dating. I had no patience for the whole game of it -- we last saw each other on Saturday and it's Monday so is it too soon to call or should I wait until Wednesday? I'm too brutally honest, and just want to get to the point where we're both really ourselves and have a chance to relax and discover if we like being together.

But I always loved that thrill of the first kiss. Maybe because it's the first moment of risk, when you stop fanning your feathers at each other and make a move declaring "I think this might be something."

There's a spark in that, and also no small amount of risk.

Years back, after my first engagement blew up but before I met John, I dated a guy I'd known for years. Acting entirely too much like a middle school girl, I told a friend of his I'd kind of like to go out with him. Shortly thereafter, he called, and we went on the classic "I'll pick you up at 7 for dinner and a movie" night. Still, we were crossing a barrier that had been up for years by moving beyond friendship. At the end of the night, we lingered at my doorway for what seemed like an eternity before he finally caved in and asked "So, was this a date?" "I think so," I replied. "And, does that mean I should kiss you?" he asked. Something about the "mother may I?" quality of the moment cracked me up, and still does when I think about it.

With John, we went to this party, then he came back over to my apartment, where we hung out and talked for what seemed like a very long time. Then he walked to the back door to leave. He stood facing me, hands at his sides, then grabbed both of my hands and pulled me gently toward him. I smirked at what I figured was a move he'd patented in years of dating, though he swears he'd never done it before, and he still professes his surprise that I kissed him then.

It was a magical moment of connection, of open declaration that "I like you." But I had no way of knowing this was the beginning of a relationship that would lead to engagement, marriage, a move to New York ... no way of knowing much of anything except that I'd just had an unexpectedly romantic date involving a sport I don't care much about.

If I'd known, I'm not sure what I would have done differently, but I still think it's somehow unfair that you don't get to savor the importance of what's happening the last time a date leans in to kiss you.

We're programmed to understand the significance of that lean. Generally someone's got to do it first, and you have a split second to either reciprocate or remove yourself from the line of fire.

One of the most profoundly embarrassing moments of my adult social life (adolescence had far too many to count) involved the lean. A male friend was leaving a party and came by me on his way to the door. He leaned and I reflexively snapped my head back like a crash test dummy experiencing full frontal impact. Then I realized he was kissing me on the cheek for my birthday and I'm sure I blushed 13 shades of crimson for misinterpreting the gesture.

So maybe the night of the Rose Bowl party nine years ago wasn't the last time I'll experience the lean, but with luck, it's the last time that I'll return the lean and declare "I like you, too."