Late January, 2007. It’s a grey winter day here in London, cool enough for a smattering of snow, but warm enough for puddles. Sloppy and uninspiring, it’s too raw to saunter, too wet to stay dry, too easy to stay in. Watching the pedestrians passing my window, I see that, for the most part, they feel the same way - walking with purpose, not pleasure. Except, except for that young couple who just stopped and kissed right smack-dab in front of my bedroom. They apparently didn’t even notice the weather. Laughing, coats open, hands snug in the other person’s back pocket, they continued up the hill after a sweet, beginning-of-the-relationship type of kiss. I bet each of them is already wondering what to give the other on Valentine’s Day.
The program on the TV behind me is about to switch to one called "Property Virgins." "Well," I think to myself, "it has been a long time since I was any kind of virgin." I hadn’t given a thought to that delightful, scary, annoying, wonder-what-it’s-going-to-be-like, pre-experience state-of-mind until I listened to the announcement of the upcoming show while I shamelessly peeked through my window blinds and appreciated those kids’ kiss.
"Property Virgins." The title tweaks my imagination and the kiss creates a subtle yearning to feel like a spring chick myself. Wonder what first-time experience I should try. Sky diving? (No, falling into bed is hard enough on this old bod.) Race car driving perhaps? (Nope, I have a tendency to squinch my eyes shut during scary moments.) How about plunging into winter feet-first by taking up snow boarding? (Another no. I find it difficult to balance on a stable, flat surface with two feet wide apart, so the thought of hurtling down a slippery slope on a wobbly slat, one foot behind the other, is decidedly unnerving.) Moreover, as a professed couch potato, I have trouble visualizing this body participating in any of the above activities. What to do, what to do? What new flavour can I savour?
I check my email for inspiration. Among all the unopened spam, the group list correspondence, and the occasional personal notes, I spy an earlier invitation to read a new story by Melanie Mehrer - Blaming it on Syphilis. Eureka! A first-time experience that I can consummate while whiling away time in the privacy of my bedroom, under no duress, with no nervous perspiration roused - a Commontales posting!
Notwithstanding my flirtation with this mode of expression, engaging in a bit of foreplay by composing comments to Melanie’s memoirs, submitting my first blog is not something that I seem to be taking lightly. Pressing that "Save" button at the bottom of the page is harder than I thought it would be. However, if you are reading this, it means that I have overcome my new-kid-on-the-block shyness and that we have just experienced half of our first tête-à-tête. The next post is yours.