

### Kiss Chronicles

By Virginia M. Sanders

Copyright 2013 Virginia M. Sanders

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

All rights reserved. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reproduced, copied, and distributed in printed or electronic form for commercial or non-commercial purposes. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com. Thank you for your support.

Although the incidents in this book are written substantially as the author remembers them, the names of some people and entities have been changed to protect their privacy.

Cover and interior art by Saharu Fakhraie.

A Few Words of Thanks

This book wouldn't exist if it weren't for the support of some wonderful people.

Thank you to the Pen to Paper writers group members for pushing me to rethink and improve. With special thanks to the Fearless Leader, the Fearful Leader, Toby, Lala, M Dash, Jim Me John, Andor, and Fake Dave for the emotional support, critiques, and encouragement you've given me.

Thank you, Hamster, for taking images straight out of my head and putting them on paper. You are so incredibly gifted, and I'm blessed that you shared your talents with me.

Thank you to Eric, Beth, and Liz for acting as my Alpha Team and for your support, and to Melanie for joining the team at the eleventh hour. Stand proud, team!

Last and greatest, thank you to all those who believed in me.

Disclaimer

Many pancakes were harmed in the making of this book. I regret nothing.

In loving memory of

Mark and Eric Sanders

### Table of Contents

Introduction

1. What's Wrong with Her?

Chronicle: Puppy Love, by Anonymous

2. First Things Second

3. I Used to Be Shorter

Chronicle: The Girl Next Door, by Stephan Michael Loy

4. Growing Up? Don't You Mean Growing Geek?

5. The Opposite (of) Sex

Chronicle: Random Parking Lots, by Layla Rainbolt

6. The Near-Miss Kiss

Chronicle: Absolutely, I Promise, by David Fake

7. Origins

Chronicle: The Princess and the Pauper, by Brad Severance

8. A Great Start

Chronicle: First Kiss, by Jim Meeks-Johnson

9. Daddy's Girl

Chronicle: An Icy Christmas, by Andy Hollandbeck

10. Hindsight's a Bitch

Chronicle: Mix Tape, by Tom Farrell

11. Grasping at Straws

12. Will Write for Charity

Dear Reader

Connect with the Author & Contributors

### Introduction

Once upon a time, in a world where magic was still possible and where adventurers sought their fortunes, a girl longed for her first kiss.

That could be the start of a children's fairy tale. However, it's also the start of a true story — this true story. I wanted my first kiss. With such a simple, ordinary beginning, the story that follows should also be simple and ordinary, shouldn't it?

I'm not very good at simple and ordinary. Complicated like a Rube Goldberg mousetrap is more my style, whether I mean it to be or not.

In April of 2011, I turned thirty years old without experiencing my first kiss. Yes, you read that right. Reread it if you need to. I understand if you have a hard time believing it. I got all sorts of reactions when telling people about my little "condition," from amazement to disbelief to outright laughter. It made me laugh, too, at least when it didn't make me try to tear my hair out. I didn't deliberately set out to not get my first kiss. I ended up kissless not by choice, but by mere accident — a no-good, lousy, pain-in-the-ass accident. I give the term _late bloomer_ new meaning.

Like a master of origami who can take a simple square of paper and turn it into an intricate network of folded angles to create a dragon, I can take a minuscule problem in my life and turn it into a massive complication. Shortly after my thirtieth birthday, I decided that I absolutely had to get that kiss. Following that decision, I rejected all the easiest possible methods for getting a kiss for the simple reason that they didn't suit me. I also take the term _picky_ to a new level.

Then I came up with the Kiss Chronicles concept, which would get me my first kiss in a way that suited me, and the challenges began.

A Defining Moment in Life

Before I tell you more about the project, I need to make sure we're on the same page about what a first kiss is. I'm not going to claim that _no one_ has _ever_ kissed me in my life. That's ridiculous because anyone who was once a baby got kissed on a chubby cheek. As you have likely deduced, I was once a baby. But I'm sure you'll agree with me that a kiss on a baby's cheek doesn't count as someone's _first kiss,_ so obviously some exceptions exist. None of the kisses I've gotten have been my first kiss. I've never gotten a kiss from a guy I was attracted to — or from one I wasn't attracted to, for that matter.

Defining kissing is a necessary evil. You'll have to pardon me if I get a little clinical here. I admit, I feel a bit like Jack Skellington from _The Nightmare Before Christmas,_ working in his laboratory, trying to discern the meaning of Christmas by dissecting teddy bears, melting candy canes, and crushing ornaments. Like Christmas, a kiss should be understood by the heart, not the mind. Defining a kiss seems almost blasphemous. But, as I said, we need to be on the same page about what a kiss is. When I say a "first kiss," I'm talking about something specific. To put that kiss into words, though, I have to classify the types of kisses that exist. As I see it, a kiss can fall into only four possible categories:

* **Familial, platonic:** I received and gave this type of kiss as I grew up. This category includes, for example, affectionate kisses from a parent to a child. It can be the kiss that your grandma gives you as you cringe away from her stale butterscotch breath. It's the kiss that you don't want to get from your mafia don brother if you're in the movie _Godfather II._ It's the kind of kiss that my very Italian uncle gave my stoic dad on each cheek, which always made me laugh.

* **Familial, non-platonic:** Eww. The word for kisses that fall into this category is _incestuous._ I haven't had a kiss in this category, and I don't plan to. Think of the kiss between Luke and Leia in _The Empire Strikes Back._ Okay, sure, they didn't know their blood relation at the time of the kiss, but the scene does cause some movie watchers to cringe retroactively.

* **Non-familial, platonic:** I've had kisses in this category. This is the kind of kiss that you give or receive, for instance, when your friend's three-year-old child wants to demonstrate fishy kisses to you. It's the kind of kiss you give on your cat or dog's forehead. You give this type of kiss to demonstrate purely platonic affection because you couldn't possibly be attracted to the one you're kissing.

Some people might argue that hello and goodbye kisses between friends are non-familial, platonic. I disagree. I don't include those kisses in this category because a _possibility_ exists for attraction. If one party _could_ be sexually attracted to the other, the kiss falls in the next category.

* **Non-familial, non-platonic:** I have not given, received, or shared a non-familial, non-platonic kiss. This category covers a kiss between little Susie and Bobby on the playground when they were just six years old. It's a kiss that two teenagers share as they lean over an empty bottle that just stopped spinning. It's a kiss between two thespians on a stage. It's a kiss between newlyweds. I make no gender distinctions here: If Person A mashes lips with Person B, and Person B is of the same gender, that counts as a non-familial, non-platonic kiss.

_This is it._ This is where the kissing hype is. Think of Rhett Butler kissing Scarlett O'Hara. (Fun fact: Vivien Leigh hated kissing Clark Gable because he had bad breath due to his dentures.) Or picture the iconic moment of the sailor kissing the nurse in _Life_ magazine on V-J Day. Surely you remember Lady and the Tramp bumping noses while slurping noodles. It's Romeo and Juliet making out the first time they meet. Maybe you saw news articles about the Vancouver riot couple sharing a quick kiss of comfort. Of course, there's also the kiss to end all kisses at the finale of _The Princess Bride._ This is kissing! Just thinking about all those great moments in kissing makes my little heart flutter, and those are just a minuscule sampling of thousands of great kisses. Of course I decided I needed to get a kiss. Who wouldn't?

What Would You Do for a Kiss?

Have you ever heard the song "Kiss That Frog"? _"So what's one little kiss, One tiny little touch."_ Peter Gabriel knows what he's singing about. A kiss is a small thing, just a brushing of lips. But if you think about and wish for a small thing for a very long time, it eventually stops seeming quite so small and insignificant.

I asked a few unsuspecting women what they would do if they reached thirty without having a first kiss. Their stupefied expressions gratified me in a twisted sort of way. They looked as stumped as I felt. The replies I received were "I don't know" and "Is that even possible?" and "I'd find some random guy and kiss him."

The phrase "I don't know what to do" had echoed in my head for years. The option of going out to a bar and finding a random stranger to kiss — yes, that rolled through my mind as well. I tried telling myself to just take that easy road and get it done. I attempted to gear myself up for it by telling myself to put on my battle armor and get smooched, but I just couldn't. Here's why:

* Thinking about the "just get it done" approach made me feel as though I had to plug my nose, close my eyes, and choke down some sort of disgusting food, like okra. I do not want an okra first kiss. I don't even want an okra second kiss. Just keep the okra away from me!

* The idea didn't fit with who I am and how I see myself. Every time I tried the idea on for size, it felt like an awkward moment in a department store dressing room. The size and style didn't do anything for me.

* It seemed wasteful. Surely I could do better. Couldn't I? Actually, I had doubts about whether I could do better. After thirty years, my progress showed little promise.

I ruled out the "just get it done" idea, but I still wanted that kiss. So I began conjuring up myriad possibilities for acquiring a kiss that wouldn't leave an okra aftertaste. I had a stray thought one day: _Well, stranger things have shown up on eBay, so why not a first kiss?_ Then a second, more powerful stray thought followed the first:

I could auction off my first kiss for charity.

That's how the idea for Kiss Chronicles was born. I fell madly, passionately in love with it.

Finally! Here's where I tell you all about the big project! Or not. You'll have to pardon me, but that comes later in the story. I could start there, perhaps, but I think you'll be able to appreciate the description more fully after I describe some of the life experiences that lead to the project. Of course, that's just a hoity-toity way of saying that I'd like you to get to know me before you get to know the project.

Alternatively, think of it this way: I could dive right into the project. I could keep it simple and succinct. That would be like serving you a main dish and then telling you to get out and go home. However, I've opted for writing a four-course meal. Dessert is included, and there's no need to rush. In the end, you and I will both be more satisfied.

So that's why I'm not digging straight into the project details first thing. I can tell you this now, though: Kiss Chronicles has run me through a full spectrum of emotion, from uncontrollable laughter to hysterical tears, from jubilation to borderline depression, but it has _never_ been boring. This book describes the journey I took and all that I learned from it. A meal like this one will stick to your ribs.

The Importance of a Kiss

For the purposes of this book, the fact that I haven't had my first kiss is very important. However, that's not the most important thing about who I am. For instance, I'm not going to tell you about the years I spent studying Taekwondo, or the time in college that I gave a persuasive speech about the Loch Ness monster, or the terrible poetry and novel I wrote during high school — they're a part of me, but they have no lip-locking relevance. However, I'll tell you other stories from my life that play some role in why I haven't had my first kiss, such as surviving the hell that was grade school, how I got together with my first boyfriend, the months I spent in Ireland during college, and why I consider online dating the modern equivalent of being stretched on a rack. I also tell you about the Kiss Chronicles project, how it began and what it became, and all the events that led to this book.

As an added bonus, scattered throughout this book are short stories about kissing and kisses by a few very talented writers. Consider it a sampler platter of kiss stories, a sort of kissing buffet, if you will. I've placed a kiss mark like this

at the top of each story. (If you can't see the kiss mark, that means your chosen ebook format hates kisses.) Some of the short stories are fictional, and some are non-fiction. I couldn't get the writers to give me an honest answer about whether or not they were true, so you'll just have to read and guess which is which.

I fully expect to get some flak for putting a high value on my first kiss. Some people inevitably will come along and try to object to the idea of giving a first kiss this much meaning or importance. Some might claim that I'm silly or unliberated, and likely nothing I can say will change their minds. They're free to judge me. To be honest, I'll probably return the favor and call them "chicken lips!" behind their backs.

Besides, culture insists that kissing is important, so I didn't start that fire. Kissing is an omnipresent force in society. _You can't escape it._ Really, think about it. Start by taking a look at music. I could spend pages listing song titles that include the word _kiss._ You can listen to "Kiss Me" by Sixpence None the Richer, "Last Kiss" by Wayne Cochran (et al.), "This Kiss" by Faith Hill, "Sweet Sweet Kisses" by Duke Special, and many more. And those are just a few songs with kissing in the titles — I'd need an entire book to list kissing lyrics.

I could start discussing the significance of kissing in fairy tales and the impression it leaves on children, but if I start, I might never stop. Maybe I'll write a dissertation on it some day.

There's also kissing on film. _Lots_ of kissing on film, for both television and movies. Movie titles that include the word _kiss, kissing,_ or _kissed_ number in the hundreds. I already mentioned some memorable film kisses, but how about a few more? Perhaps you remember the kiss scene from _E.T.,_ right after Elliot set the lab frogs loose? The _Friends_ audience waited with baited breath for Ross and Rachel's first kiss. _The Big Bang Theory_ made a big deal about Sheldon getting kissed. And there's _Casablanca, From Here to Eternity, Spider-Man, Brokeback Mountain, Dirty Dancing, Ghost, Shrek_ . . . the smooches just keep coming. By the way, if you want to watch the ultimate movie about kissing, which often goes unmentioned, you should see _Cinema Paradiso._

As members of the audience, these kisses stay with us because we feel the thrill of the chase when the protagonist wins the heart of the desired guy or gal and is rewarded with a kiss. ( _10 Things I Hate About You_ comes to mind.) Or we experience the tension of the characters onscreen as their lips draw ever closer as though pulled together. (I can't pick just one, so fill in your favorite.) And we celebrate victories with characters as they claim kisses after surviving harsh battles. (I think of _Return of the King_ for this one.) For some movies, a kiss even acts as the climax of the story. (Need I mention _Sleeping Beauty_?)

The climactic moment of a kiss isn't reserved for fictional stories, though. Consider this: What do newly married couples do as soon as they finish tying the knot? If you answer with anything other than "they kiss," you've missed the boat and might as well stop reading now.

I haven't even mentioned books. Or kissing games. Or advertisements. Gum, breath mint, and lipstick advertisers would weep if they couldn't use kissing in their promotions.

In short, kissing is an important hallmark in our culture. Anyone who tries disputing that fact deserves to lose the argument and have _Sourpuss_ stamped on his or her forehead. I doubt you're a sourpuss, though. In fact, I'm hoping you're ready to grab a bag of Hershey's Kisses, fix yourself an Italian Smooch mocktail, and keep reading.

Everyone has a true story to tell about a kiss, whether it's about an awful kiss, an almost kiss, a sad kiss, an onion-breath kiss, or a beautiful kiss. I can't promise you that mine's more entertaining than John's or Sally's or Balthazar's or even yours. What I can promise is that the story you're about to read is true, that it's mine, and that it proves how much more important the journey is than the destination.

### Chapter 1

"What's Wrong with Her?"

This girl who set out on a quest for her first kiss was not a princess. She didn't have a fairy godmother. She wasn't even cursed by a cruel witch, a heartless wizard, or any other diabolical character.

She was just an ordinary girl.

Some kind friends of mine helped with spreading the word about Kiss Chronicles. My lifelong dream of having minions has been fulfilled. However, as these friends explained the situation to people (that I'm over thirty and without a first kiss), one of the inevitable reactions was "What's wrong with her?"

It's a fair question.

Right away, let me eliminate a few of what would seem to be obvious explanations:

* **Is it my looks?** Some people might jump to the conclusion that I must be hideously disfigured. Perhaps I don't have any lips! Perhaps I'm the Elephant Man's second cousin twice removed, and I look just like him.

If you were having fun imagining my disfigurements, I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm normal-looking. I'm just a little taller than average, I'm a proper weight for my height, and I'm a green-eyed brunette. I'm not malformed. I don't even have any particularly big scars.

Want to know something funny? From my observations, appearance has jack to do with getting kissed. It also has jack to do with falling in love, though plenty to do with initial attraction and falling in lust. People of all types of appearances are out there living their lives and sharing kisses. And that's kind of a comforting thought.

* **Am I mentally challenged?** Before you assume that I'm being un-PC, let me say that just as with appearance, mental challenges also have nothing to do with getting kissed. I'm just brushing aside potential assumptions.

I have not, as of yet, been diagnosed as being mental challenged. That might only be because I'm too damn fast for the doctors to catch.

* **Do I live in a cave?** No. I live in Indianapolis, Indiana. The cave is just a timeshare.

* **Am I socially inept?** Okay, with this one, I might be getting closer to a valid reason, but it's not quite right. I don't have social anxiety, although I'm perfectly capable of shyness at times. I can be very outgoing in some situations, a quiet listener in others. I can speak in front of crowds if I'm prepared. All in all, the specific circumstances of a given social situation determine my level of comfort.

I'm not a party girl. I rarely drink, and when I do it's on holidays or for special occasions with family.

So, given all those facts, I wouldn't call myself socially inept. I also wouldn't call myself especially savvy. I'm just socially average.

_Fun facts:_ I often stutter when I get very excited about what I'm trying to say. Also, if I feel a need to be cautious about what I'm saying, I start spouting vocabulary words that would make my high school English teachers proud. I occasionally get told to stop using big words.

* **Am I a raging bitch?** Mind your own business! Wait, no, please don't stop reading. I was just kidding! I'm really sorry about that. Don't go.

I'd like to think I'm not a bitch, but even if I were, it wouldn't be a hindrance for getting kisses. Actually, if I were a raging bitch, I guarantee you I would have had that first kiss (and a lot more) by now. Raging bitches know how to snag men, one way or another. If you need proof, just watch one episode of some sort of reality show such as _The Bachelor._ Then quickly turn off the TV and never watch it again.

I came up with the preceding questions. Some of my friends wanted to know a bit more, so they asked me the following:

* **"Are you straight?"** Women are pretty, but they just aren't romantically interesting to me. Wrong equipment for my preferences, you know? I haven't had any lesbian kisses to write about, and it's not a personal goal.

* **"Did you used to be a man?"** See, I can trust my friends to ask the most logical, poignant questions. No, I was never a man!

* **"Haven't you ever gotten caught under a mistletoe?"** My only mistletoe encounters happened at home when I was a little girl — my brothers used the mistletoe as an excuse to blow raspberries on my cheek or belly. Other than that, I've gone uncaught.

* **"Are you just really picky about guys?"** To this question, I have to reply with a _yes._ I rarely meet guys who catch my fancy. However, plenty of picky girls out there still manage to get kissed before they reach thirty.

* **"Do pets count?"** No, kissing Fluffy or Spot or Rufferton III doesn't count. I had a friend whose younger sister French-kissed the family dog on a regular basis, and neither the little sister nor the dog felt any sort of attraction to each other. There's nothing amorous about a pooch smooch. Please refer to my list of kiss types in the Introduction.

* **"What part does religion have to play with this?"** With my first kiss? Not a whole lot. I haven't heard of any eleventh commandment that states "Thou shalt not kiss."

My family raised me in the Catholic church, and I'm still practicing. I have my disagreements with the church, but it's still home. Religiously speaking, I'm not ultra-conservative.

* **"Are you afraid to kiss?"** Maybe a little, just because I've had way too much time to think about it. Take a moment and think of something small but significant that you've wanted for decades. Dream about it. Wish for it. Let the dreaming and wishing sink deeply into your being. Add some memories of disappointment just for a little flavor. At some point, over time, a wish can become too important, can become much bigger as a dream than it ever had a right to be. I reached that point with that stupid little kiss, so yeah, maybe it's a little scary to me now. It isn't scary in an "eek, spiders!" sort of way, but scary as in "it can't live up to the dream" and "oh my gosh, I'm going to mess it up."

So, really, what's wrong with me? It's not just other people who have asked that question. I've asked it plenty of times myself. Is there something that's just fundamentally unkissable about me? I'd prefer that not be the case, but it bears looking into.

Flirtation

A coy glance. A compliment at the right moment. A smile that speaks of attraction.

I have solid theories and logical comprehension about flirting. However, flirting is not a strong suit of mine. If it were, I could have gotten this kiss issue nipped in the bud a long time ago.

I can recognize flirtation. I simply find it easier to observe than to practice. For instance, less than a year ago, I was in a long checkout line at the grocery store. I stood behind two men, both of them roughly twenty-two to twenty-four years old. One had a scruffy beard and a long, droopy face, and the other appeared clean shaven and attractive. I'll call them Rip Van Winkle and Happy Get Lucky. Ahead of them in line stood a young woman, petite and with the kind of baby-doll looks that make me turn green. I'll call her Doll.

Rip and Happy, alert to the lone female in their proper age range, stood up nice and straight and took the first opportunity to open up small talk with Doll.

"This lane's going to take a while," Happy said when he made eye contact with Doll.

"Yeah, definitely," Doll agreed.

"Everybody's swarming the grocery store," Rip Van Winkle said.

"Yeah," Doll replied. "Everybody wants to get their groceries before the snow storm."

Had they been peacocks, Happy and Rip would have had their butt feathers on full display. As soon as they broke the ice and Doll responded in a friendly way, the race against the clock began. Happy Get Lucky didn't hesitate. He turned his flirtation dial on high. I observed in fascination, wondering whether he'd walk away with a seven-digit prize. The line ahead dwindled, though, and Doll checked out and departed with a farewell to the disappointed guys.

Said Happy Get Lucky to the cashier, "I could have gotten her number if you'd gone a little slower."

"Sorry, bro," the cashier replied. "You should have given me a signal or something."

I felt a little disappointed for Happy. He did his best.

So yes, I recognize flirting when I see it. I can even recognize when it's aimed at me. A few months before I began writing this book, I went to Subway to pick up a sandwich for dinner. As per my usual habits, I entertained myself by bantering with the guy making my sandwich. I'd guess he was twenty or twenty-one years old.

As he assembled my sandwich, he threw it right out there: "Shouldn't you have a boyfriend here buying this for you?"

My mental faculties, previously focused with great intent on bread choices and a variety of fresh greenery, all faltered simultaneously. _This is flirtation,_ the logical side of my brain reported to me.

"That'd be nice," I replied. I felt my courteous smile freeze on my face as my mental operating system went on standby.

That ended that. He didn't make any other overtures, and I'm glad he didn't. My capacity for flirting with strangers doesn't exist. Flirting with someone I know, someone whose presence is familiar? That's a possibility.

This example is a little embarrassing, but here it goes: During my sophomore year of college, I attended a cast party after the run of a play. This incident happened in the fall, and it involved candy. I got caught up in a competition with one of the upperclass females. She and I vied with each other over who could eat a candy more sexily. We were getting fed these small candies by one of the more eligible upperclassmen guys. I was a little bit sweet on the guy, but the feelings didn't amount to a full-blown crush, which left me in a perfect state of feeling attracted but not anxiously attracted.

My competitor and I kept trying to one-up each other to see who could get a better reaction from the guy, each of us becoming increasingly flirty to show up the other. I remember bending over backward to get one of the candy treats. I'm still not sure who won; the guy was a nice person, and I got the impression that he didn't want to declare a winner. However, it was a good time and a fun challenge.

I'm capable of flirting even though I have no comprehension of how to flirt with strangers. I don't have a lot of practice at it, but being a talented flirt isn't a prerequisite for getting a kiss. At least I hope not. If it is, I'm in trouble.

Location

My very Italian Uncle Ron sometimes likes to tell me that if I lived in Italy, I wouldn't be single because some nice Italian boy would scoop me up. (I really like it when he says that. Please don't tell him, though.)

I don't live in Italy, although I'd like to visit there some day. I was born and raised in Indiana, and I currently dwell in Indianapolis. Welcome to the Midwest. We Midwesterners like our churches big enough that a small congregation doesn't have to sit close together, we like our big cities to behave like small towns, and we like our restaurant meals to be big enough to feed a small army. Collectively, we're known to be polite but stubborn about changing our political opinions. We have a lot of what I like to call "Midwest inertia." We just can't be bothered to be budged.

One of my friends is convinced I'll never find a guy here in Indy. She might be right — it's hard to say. She found her husband in Illinois, so her example isn't all that far from home.

What if my location is truly a part of the problem? Would things have been different if I'd lived in Colorado and belonged to some sort of mountain-exploration community? Would my unkissed state still persist if I lived in Florida and spent my weekends on the beach? Could I have gotten a kiss more easily if I were a no-nonsense New Yorker?

The location is a moot point. Location can impact the manner of a person's life, but I have no way to say for sure that my location contributes to my pucker problem.

Despite that, I do believe that location and surroundings can have a huge impact on the availability of opportunities. I have a perfect example, too. In 2010, I went on a cruise with my mom to Alaska. I could hardly wait for that adventure — I'd never gone on a cruise before. Mom and I planned it for months, deciding the cruise line, picking out the right room, and choosing what land excursions to go on. As we planned, I held a small hope in my heart that on the ship I might run across an attractive man, roughly my age, a nice guy who'd be friendly and flirtatious and interested in helping me with my kiss dilemma. I was twenty-nine at the time, and I didn't want to reach thirty without a kiss.

As Mom and I arrived at the port, wheeling our noisy luggage behind us, my modest hope died a rapid and undignified death. Everywhere around me, I saw heads of white and gray. Apparently, young people don't go on cruises to Alaska (unless they're me). It's not the thing to do.

I take it back. I think I did see a few young people here and there. They were couples.

Maybe I was just on the wrong boat, and all the young people cruising to Alaska went at a different time or on a different ship. Or, more likely, they got on cruises to more tropical locations.

I did see a couple of attractive men along the Alaskan journey. They were my tour guides, and I wanted to take one of them home with me. However, please refer to my inability to flirt with strangers. The tours didn't provide enough time for me to get past the "geez, you're handsome" stupefied stage and move on to the "I think I'll stand a little closer to you now" stage.

Which brings me to my next point.

Timing

Timing acts as a potent force in the world.

Timing is the difference between a joke being funny and falling flat. Anyone with a funny bone knows that and has been in both situations.

Timing can be the difference between a harsh truth being accepted or rejected. You're having a horrible day: Your boss yelled at you, you lost your cell phone, and your dog ate your dinner when your back was turned and then threw it up on your shoes. After all that, you're probably not going to take it well when your friend tells you that your haircut makes you look like the ugly end of a warthog, am I right?

Timing is, quite literally, life and death. It's the difference of seconds between a tragic car accident happening and a driver being able to apply the breaks just in time to save lives.

Timing can be the difference between love and friendship. It can mean being in the coffee shop at the right moment to meet your future spouse, or it can mean meeting the same person there three years later, only to discover that he or she is wearing a wedding ring.

Timing played a big role for one of my friends and her love life, in a good way: She broke up with her long-term boyfriend, and soon after that, she met and became involved with the man she would eventually marry. Wait, actually, that's happened to _two_ of my friends.

Is that destiny? Is fate showing up and saying, "Hello, you two people, I declare it time for you to be together"? I'm not sure — I tend to shy away from the words _destiny_ and _fate._ They sound too mystical, which makes them slippery terms that are difficult to define, and many people think of _destiny_ and _fate_ in different ways. Whether or not destiny or fate had a hand in my friends being single just in time to meet their future spouses, I'm just grateful for the fact that I never have to see their loathsome ex-boyfriends again.

In the past, I've been told, "As soon as you stop looking for someone, he'll show up." I found this statement inaccurate. For a few years after college, I had little interest in dating or finding anyone, and not surprisingly, no mysterious Destiny Man showed up. I've also been told, "You have to take every opportunity you get because you'll never know who you might meet." Maybe I've been missing something, but opportunities don't seem to come up that often, and when they do, I either don't recognize them until it's too late, or I fumble with them because I feel awkward and clumsy, or I'm just uninterested.

I love the idea of a soulmate. I want soulmates to be a real possibility, but I don't know whether I believe in them. Again, a _soulmate_ is a tricky term that people have many unique definitions for. If I can define soulmates as being two souls that are uniquely designed to belong together with a better fit than they could find with any other soul, then yeah, I'd love to believe that's possible. However, if this phenomenon does exist, I think the odds of soulmates meeting in a lifetime are astronomically slim. It makes great stuff for romantic stories, though.

Still, perhaps there's something to be said for finding a soulmate within your sole mate. Isn't it also just as beautiful for two people to grow together over time and through their devotion?

Setting aside the concept of soulmates and scaling the conversation down to the more common concept of true love, I don't believe that only _one true love_ exists for every person — the human heart isn't that limited. Love can take on many forms and faces. If a Person A truly loves Person B, but Person B dies, then Person A might still fall in love again with Person C. The new love won't be identical to love shared with Person B, but it can still be true, deep love.

I could, if I allowed myself, go into extensive detail about my thoughts on love, romance, and how timing plays a part in both. However, although love and kissing go together like cats and patches of sunshine on the living room floor, it doesn't take falling in love to get a first kiss. In the interest of staying focused, I'll save some of my thoughts on _l'amore_ for another story, perhaps a fictional one next time.

I can look back in my life and see several moments when my first kiss could have happened, but it didn't. I'll tell you about those moments in upcoming chapters. Maybe there were even moments when I could have fallen in love, but something prevented it from happening. Sometimes timing played a role, and sometimes other factors came into play, such as my own behavior or miscellaneous details.

And It All Comes Down To...

Out there, everywhere in the world, people have all manner of personality, nationality, sexuality, locality, sociability, morality, personal style, physical features, flirtation skills, intelligence (or lack thereof), finances, health, and so on, _ad infinitum._ And these people of every type and kind manage to find their first kisses.

So basically, what's wrong with me?

Absolutely nothing. I'm unkissed for the simple reason that _it just hasn't happened._ I'm going to say that, though it wasn't the only reason, timing played one of the biggest factors, as you'll see in Chapter 6. I'm just an ordinary girl who's been extraordinarily unlucky at swapping spit.

CHRONICLE:

Puppy Love

By Anonymous

Growing up, I never did understand how "puppy love" got its name. As a die-hard cat lover, I found it unfair to the rest of the animal kingdom. Why not kitten love? Or bunny love? Or flat-footed, blue-billed platypus baby love? (I am not sure if that is a real animal, but it seems plausible.) To be honest, I thought that referring to love as a baby animal was a bit condescending in general.

But then I met Alex, and the expression seemed to fit.

I will never forget the day that Alex whirled into my life. It was the first day of high school, and I arrived at lunch late because, as is unfortunately the norm for me, I got lost. My friends already had a table, and there was one seat open at the end — a seat that happened to be across from a boy I had never seen before. As I approached, he greeted me with the friendly smile and disarming hello that I later realized were his trademark. He told me his name was Alex and that he had recently moved from Minnesota. We started talking, and I completely forgot that other people were sitting at the table. I don't remember exactly what we discussed, but based on our later relationship, it was probably something quirky, geeky, or immature. Before lunch ended, I had a crush. You could say it was true nerds at first sight.

Over the next few months, Alex became my best friend. As we grew closer, my feelings grew stronger, and we often acted like we were dating even though we weren't. It was confusing for a girl who had barely even noticed that guys existed prior to high school (except for my unfortunate history of chasing guys around the playground in elementary school and "marrying" them before they could put up a good fight). Alex acted like I was his girlfriend, and I heard through the grapevine that his mother even referred to me as his girlfriend. But if we were in a relationship, it was news to me. Don't get me wrong; there were clues. In true romantic fashion for us band nerds, whenever the directors called a water break during marching band practice, Alex came over to my side of the field — away from the water fountains — just to escort me back to his side of the field and water. He also had a cute habit of bringing an extra coat for me during our chilly fall practices. He had realized pretty quickly that I refused to believe that it was cold until I got down to the field in shorts and short sleeves and couldn't feel my fingers.

Speaking of fingers, he held my hand sometimes, but I convinced myself that it was platonic and that he was just showing his friendly, brotherly affection. We never spoke about the scary R word — relationship — and we _certainly_ never kissed.

Fortunately, both of those things eventually changed. Over a year after our first lunch, another boy named Bob decided that Alex had taken too long to ask me out on a date and that I was available for homecoming. Alex heard that he needed to move fast, but apparently he wasn't sure what to do. As a result, I received my very first Alexian date proposal during a band concert via a note that he passed across the stage from his section (the saxophones) to my section (the flutes). For the first time, I was glad that I wasn't one of the better flute players who sat in the front row. It might have been a bit hard to explain to the band director why I was drawing hearts all over a piece of paper instead of playing. In his note, Alex asked if I would like to go to homecoming with him. I said yes — in a face-to-face conversation — and homecoming was a magical night. Soon thereafter, we established that we were indeed interested in being in a relationship.

Based on how long it took us to come to that agreement, you can imagine how long it took us to get around to our first kiss. It did not happen in the first month of our relationship, or even in the second. Eventually, New Year's Eve rolled around without a kiss in sight. Alex and I decided to spend the night engaged in a euchre-tournament double date with our friends Matt and Lauren. Somewhere around our second or third euchre loss, Alex made a comment about the New Year's tradition of kissing at midnight. I don't know whether he did it on purpose or even realized what he was saying, but his comment made my heart start hammering. Somehow, I had never noticed that people kissed on New Year's, and I was terrified. What if our several-month buildup ended in catastrophe? What if it was awful? I had never kissed anyone before and had no idea what to do. Suddenly, all of the romantic comedies I had watched growing up seemed like very poor training manuals.

My heart continued to pound throughout the remaining hours, but somehow I survived. There might even have been a euchre win in there. I was so distracted that I have no idea. I considered it a miracle every time I remembered to put cards on the table.

Finally, the countdown to midnight began. I was close enough to Alex to touch him, but I had trouble looking at him. He had a determined glint in his eye but also seemed apprehensive. As the seconds ticked away, I noticed our friends Matt and Lauren raising their glasses expectantly at the TV, waiting for the magic moment. Before I knew it, Dick Clark was chanting "five, four, three, two, one . . ." The "one" sounded, and I turned to Alex. I barely had time to look at him, though, before — BAM! — our noses collided, his lips ricocheted off mine, and he retreated in panic. I guess I wasn't the only one who was anxious. We stood there stunned for a minute and then pretended nothing had happened. From the way he avoided looking at me, I could tell that he was disappointed in himself, but I didn't know what to say, especially in front of Matt and Lauren. He was my best friend, and we could talk for hours on any other subject, but somehow anything related to romance tied our tongues.

My parents picked me up that night before Alex or I broached the topic of our "kiss," but the next day we resumed our normal hanging out routine. I went to his house, and we played cards for a lack of anything better to do. I hate to lose and can be rabid when it comes to games. Eventually, I won the game and was trumpeting my win around his room in a very unsportsmanlike manner when he closed the gap between us and leaned down to kiss me. That time, it was perfect. Neither of us broke a nose; neither of us got whiplash; and, most importantly, I had enough time to revel in the fact that I was crazy about him and that he was kissing me. When he raised his head, I noticed his floppy hair and the same brown eyes that had laughed at me through millions of jokes and stories over the previous year and a half, and my anxiety of the previous night seemed stupid. True, I had never kissed a boy before, but I had also never had such a giant crush on a boy before, and that had turned out all right. It was better than any "second first kiss" I could have imagined.

After that night, our relationship lasted for a few more months. It would probably be the fairytale ending to this story if I could tell you that Alex ended up being the love of my life or that we were meant to be together forever, but he wasn't and we weren't. Nevertheless, I have several fond memories of him. He gave me many memorable kisses, and he taught me the meaning of "puppy love." There is something unique about puppies that distinguishes them from other baby animals. They are exuberant, devoted, and completely oblivious to the world around them. Other animals in the animal kingdom may have similar traits, but to me puppies are the embodiment of those traits. My relationship with Alex made me realize that the term "puppy love" is wistful, not condescending.

### Chapter 2

First Things Second

Of course, one of the best ways for an ordinary girl to become a little less ordinary is to go on a quest.

I've used the phrase "there's a first time for everything" several times. I can't remember the first time I used it.

People are basically the same: Everyone breathes air, eats food, poops, and so on. What makes people unique, though, are their experiences. We're made up of millions of experiences. We share many experiences in common, but with differences in details. For example, people around the world drink tea. Many people share the experience of tea drinking in common, but Earl in London likes his Earl Grey, and Sandy in San Francisco likes her chai.

Often the first time experiencing something is the most memorable. However, our sets of first experiences are different. Whereas it might seem totally bizarre to you that I've never had my first kiss, I can't imagine having never read web comics or watched anime. Still, plenty of people get through the day without any knowledge or awareness of web comics and anime, and they're quite happy in spite of it.

The first chapter covers some of my philosophical thoughts about kissing. The next thing I need to do is dig in and tell you some of the stories of my life, which will give you an idea of why my first kiss got delayed. However, before that, I want to give you the chance to know a little bit more about me — kind of like an icebreaker at a party. So I'm inviting you to play a game with me to break that ice.

This chapter offers two lists: first times I haven't experienced yet (I'm calling them non-firsts) and first times I've experienced.

Now for the fun part. This chapter can be a game if you choose to participate. If you want to save this chapter for a time when it's convenient to play, you can skip to the next chapter and come back to play later.

You can play the game in different ways — all you need to do is pick the game that suits you best. The options range from very easy to not-so-easy.

**No Game, just reading:** You can read straight through, and you won't miss out on anything vital. But really, Game 1 is so easy that you might as well give it a go. Nudge nudge, hint hint.

**Game 1, Sweet Reward:** (Easiest) Do you remember that, near the end of the Introduction, I suggested you get a bag of Hershey's Kisses and keep it nearby? Here's where that bag will come in handy, or you can use some other type of treat, something you love. As you read the two lists in this chapter, Non-Firsts and Firsts, enjoy a treat for every first experience that you recall. If you can't remember the experience or you haven't had the experience, no treat. See? Very easy.

**Game 2, I Remember When:** (A little more effort required) This, I think, could be a lot of fun. This is the game I'd choose to play if I were reading this book. To play, what you'll do is call or visit one of your close friends and share your memories of first experiences as you go through the lists in this chapter. Be sure to let your friend respond with memories, as well. No matter how well you know someone, you can always discover something new.

**Game 3, Never Have I Ever:** (Even more effort required) Never Have I Ever is a drinking game. Maybe you've heard of it, but in case you haven't, here's how it works: One person makes a statement, "Never have I ever . . ." with some action filled in, such as "Never have I ever been kissed," and then the other people playing who _have_ been kissed have to take a drink. All you have to do is remember to take this ebook with you when you go to a party or bar. _Note:_ This game applies to the Non-Firsts list. You can tweak the rules to make the second list work, but I'll leave that up to you.

Non-Firsts

I could fill this list with plenty of ridiculous or uncommon things, such as "I've never eaten fugu" and "I've never gone paragliding in New Zealand," but it makes more sense to restrict the list to common events that many people experience. This list focuses on common events, things that most of the average people I know have done, but I haven't.

* I've never been to Disneyland or Disney World. The closest I've come is the Disney Store in my local mall.

* I've never been pulled over for a traffic violation . . . yet. I have, however, deserved it. I've been in cars that were pulled over, but I haven't been in the driver's seat.

* I haven't seen _Casablanca, Gone with the Wind,_ or _Dr. Zhivago._ Yes, I know, I'm subhuman. (And suddenly, you've just realized that there are worse things than not having a first kiss.) I also haven't seen _Titanic._ I'm kind of proud of that one in a perverse way. I know, I know, it's a "great movie." I'm avoiding it out of sheer stubbornness.

* I have never been a vegetarian. Hooray for bacon!

* I've never been drunk. I have no aspirations to try it, either. My Irish ancestors are rolling in their graves. (I appease them by enjoying an occasional glass of Bailey's Irish Cream.)

* I've never smoked.

* I've never shoplifted.

* I've never gone skinny dipping.

* I've never learned to play an instrument. Sure, I played the recorder in grade school, and I learned to play "Heart and Soul" and "Chopsticks" on the piano. I hardly count either of those things as learning to play an instrument.

* I've never learned to walk in high heels. I have no idea how to do it. I look at women walking around on toothpick-heeled shoes, and I wonder what magic they use to keep from snapping their ankles. If I feel the need to wear heels, I settle for clunk heels that provide some stability.

Firsts

Firsts can be wonderful, horrible, or somewhere in between. Most people carry precious memories of various first times. As it turns out, I can easily fill in the Firsts list. Here are a few of my original experiences:

* My first time riding a bike is a vintage classic: Dad had taken off my training wheels and dragged me and my bike out to a school playground near our house. He held onto the back of the seat as I peddled along and found my balance, and when I finally got into a groove, he simply let go. See? Classic. When I looked over my shoulder, he stood yards and yards behind me. Then I had to stop the bike because I had no idea how to turn without eating pavement.

* I hated tea the first time I tried it — in fact, I hated it with a fiery passion. It tasted bitter and left a dry aftertaste that I had to rinse with water. This unfortunate incident happened when I was in first or second grade. It was a long, long time before I ever got past my resentment to give tea a second chance.

* The first time I saw a bald eagle is one of my most precious memories. I was eleven, and my parents had tossed me into a car and hauled me across the country to Montana for a family reunion. One of our activities for the reunion was white water rafting (also a first for me). Not everyone in the family attended the activity, but we still occupied three large rafts, so that should give you some idea of just how large the reunion was. At the very start of the rafting adventure, a bald eagle soared across the river just a few raft lengths in front of us. A perfect moment, a great start.

* I've seen _Breakfast at Tiffany's,_ but it was a near miss. I saw it for the first time in 2010.

* I remember my first crush. I was just a mini-geek back then. You can find the details in Chapter 3.

* I remember the first time I told a guy I was attracted to him. I also remember the first time I hit on a guy. Yes, I somehow managed to split those into two separate experiences. You can find out more about those experiences in Chapters 6 and 5, respectively.

* I traveled overseas for the first time when I was sixteen. I went with two high school teachers and two upperclassmen on a spring break trip to England. We took the trip very seriously, treating it as a purely educational experience, and I still have an old picture of the teachers locked in a stockade at Warwick Castle. I regret now that I didn't order the Spotted Dick when we went out to dinner in London, but at least my thoughtful upperclassman let me have a bite of some Spotted Dick.

* I made up for not ordering the Spotted Dick by buying a Hooker Sandwich at a train station in Ireland a few years later. I saved the label for a scrapbook.

* I once wore a fake moustache in grade school for a play. It itched, but I had fun putting it on and wiggling it under my nose.

* I first drove a car with manual transmission when I was sixteen. That's right: I learned on stick shift. I prefer stick shift. Some people look at me as if I have two heads when I say that.

* I went to a drive-in movie for the first time in 1999 with my friend Colleen and her then-boyfriend. We saw _Sixth Sense_ and _Deep Blue Sea,_ and I felt worldly for going to a drive-in.

* I first tasted sushi as a college student. A classmate insisted I should try it, so I gave it a shot. The first time, sushi didn't impress me. The second time, I thought it tasted pretty good. After the third try, I was hooked.

I hope you had fun if you played one of the versions of the game. I feel like I've procrastinated sufficiently now, so the next chapter continues the main story.

### Chapter 3

I Used to Be Shorter

The girl had grown up with a wonderful family. Her father was a carpenter, and her mother a healer. Her older brothers slew monsters, and the girl fought off small, annoying trolls that wandered into their village.

I grew up in Fort Wayne, Indiana. Fort Wayne is a decent-sized city that behaves like more like a small town, and many of my classmates and friends sarcastically referred to it as "Fort Fun." Most of them couldn't wait to grow up and move away to find a more active city life. However, despite the lack of hustle and bustle, or perhaps because of it, many people agree that Fort Wayne is a great place to raise a family.

This chapter tells the tales of my shorter years, the years when I lacked height and when time passed swiftly as if always rushing toward the next summer vacation. I know lots of people got their first kisses in their shorter years, but for various reasons, I had no sloppy puppy love kisses.

The Sanders Family

I'm the youngest of five children as well as the only girl. Not only that, but I was born almost exactly ten years after my youngest brother. Yes, I was a woopsie baby.

You're probably thinking I had a pretty sweet deal with that setup. You're right. By the time I came along, my parents had already grown comfortable in their parenting methods. I had my own room, the smallest of three upstairs bedrooms. I didn't have to wear hand-me-down clothes. I got a lot of free rein to do what I wanted as long as I wasn't obnoxious or misbehaved.

The downside to being a little girl with much older brothers was that I couldn't resist playing with them, even if playing with them meant getting injured. Whenever my big brothers started wrestling on the living room floor, I wanted to join in because it looked like they were having so much fun. However, jumping into the tangle of gangly teenage boys always meant I ended up in tears over some minor injury. Of course, by the next time I saw two or more of my brothers tussling, I'd once again be eager to join the fray.

That wasn't the only downside, though. When I was three years old, my oldest brother turned eighteen and left to start his university life. Not long after I turned eight, my youngest brother was on his way out the door to a different university. Most of them also studied abroad either in high school or at the college level. I had big brothers, but they weren't always around — they showed up at home on a rotational basis.

Even though my brothers often were in and out of the home, they had a lot to teach me, and they heavily influenced the things that I grew to love. From Nicolas, I learned to play and love computer games from a young age (relative to that time period). Daniel played make-believe games with me that encouraged me to use my imagination. Eric taught me that Greek mythology makes fun reading, and he let me try playing his harmonica. Eric and Daniel both made soccer look cool, like it was something I just _had_ to try, and I did. Jonathan taught me to play with fireworks and that the best conversations happen on the house's roof late at night. They all helped teach me how to look under rocks to find pill bugs and wiggly worms and how to make a proper mess when decorating Christmas cookies. They also taught me how to get mad, have a fight, and move on. With that many strong-willed individuals under one roof, we had plenty of arguments.

Because of my brothers' influence, I had more love for music like Oingo Boingo and The Pogues than the bubblegum music on the radio that my peers enjoyed. And Mom had me listening to The Clancy Brothers, The Smothers Brothers, and various musicals. Dad, well, he would have been happy if I'd fallen in love with classical music, but it never stuck with me.

My parents were older when I was born (Dad forty and Mom thirty-nine). My dad was Mr. Stoic, the engineer, the guy who said little and could fix anything, who carried me on his shoulders to church on Sundays. He was a living example of taking the boy off the Iowa farm without taking the Iowa farm out of the boy. Mom was a physical therapist, a lady from Chicago. In child-rearing, she practiced what she jokingly calls "benign neglect." She was not a helicopter parent, but we always knew we could go to her when we needed to, and if we misbehaved, she corrected us.

In my observations as a child, my parents' lives revolved around each other. When I say their "lives revolved around each other," you might interpret this in a romantic way, that they felt caught up in each other. I mean something different. They simply revolved together, like two reliable clockwork gears, each gear always pushing the other forward. They worked in tandem, without fuss. They each took care of the tasks that suited them and relied on the other to accomplish different tasks. They didn't demonstrate physical affection except on rare occasions. (I remember seeing Mom kiss Dad once, when he promised on her birthday that they would start shopping for a new car for her. Dad, to my eyes, clearly felt awkward about it.) However, neither did they demonstrate highly negative emotions toward each other. Certainly they disagreed plenty of times, but discussions always remained civil.

What I saw between them was a subtle love. An untrained eye might not have been able to see and identify it, but I caught on. They showed me the value of displaying love not with words and physical demonstrations, but with daily reliability, cooperation, and quiet affection. I saw them as being partners who simply fit. Is it perhaps because of their lack of physical demonstration that I never got my first kiss at a more tender age? Perhaps, but I think not. I grew up under the Disney influence, after all, with a firm belief in the power of true love's first kiss. I also had many other sources to fill my mind with fluffy romantic stories.

Some of the defining aspects of growing up with my family:

* Eating dinner together.

* Walking together to church on Sundays, regardless of the weather.

* Dad's pancakes.

* Waking up on a birthday to find a pile of presents neatly wrapped by Mom and placed beside the bed overnight.

* Fresh produce all summer from Dad's garden in the back yard.

* Renting a movie with Mom every Friday night.

* The frequent buzzing sound of Dad using the cylindrical saw or jigsaw while woodworking in the basement.

It's good to be a Sanders. If I had to do it all over again, I wouldn't pick another family.

Confessions from Outside of the Clique

I attended a Catholic grade school from first through eighth grade, and from there I went on to a Catholic high school. I lived my young school years in uniform.

If you're thinking high school must have sucked for me, think again. High school was just fine. _Grade_ school was hell. I consider myself an advanced geek. I got my social reject stage out of the way early, when I was in my larva-geek period and before I hit the pupa-geek phase.

I wasn't a grade school misfit from the very start. I coasted through first and second grade, and everyone at the school seemed to get along and play together. Our age group had about fifty students total, and the school split the students into two classes.

At some point during third grade, things started turning sour, and the teasing began. Somehow, for whatever reasons, my classmates labeled me as different. I was teased for having a pet rabbit. I was teased for the way I sneezed. I was teased for _whatever._ I can't even remember the majority of it. (Cut me some slack. It was over two decades ago.) The topics of the teasing, all of them superficial, don't even matter any more. What matters is that I _reacted_ to it. I got upset. I believe that my reactions, more than anything else, sealed my fate for the six years that followed. I was a weak link, identified as an easy target. I took insults, displayed the desired emotions upon receiving them, and was unable to return fire.

The teasing came from the majority of the girls of my class. Boys may have done some of the jeering on rare occasions, but I can't remember any instances of significance where the boys caused me problems.

I didn't endure horrendous bullying as some people have, so I don't have any gritty, grim details to share. The teasing was all simple stuff designed to make me feel different and unaccepted. What I remember most about being a social reject in grade school is recess. My very earliest years of recess were filled with kick ball, four square, red rover, and other common games. That changed. Somewhere along the way, recess became nothing but time . . . lots of empty time. I spent my recesses alone, off in a corner of the playground, just daydreaming. I couldn't hang out with the girls because they didn't want me around. And I wasn't especially athletic or tomboyish, so the possibility of spending recess with the boys didn't even occur to me.

The years passed, and I badly wanted back into the girls' good graces, but I didn't know how to manage it. In fact, everything I did seemed to make it worse. I grew up under the influence of older brothers, whose approval I wanted and who taught me to despise pink. My mother despised both pink and ruffles, so those gradually got weeded out of my wardrobe.

I was more interested in watching cartoons and memorizing the names and weapons of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles than I was in memorizing the names of the New Kids on the Block. This didn't earn me any cool points. When special Dress Down days happened, and we students could ditch our uniforms for comfortable clothes, another problem became evident: I vehemently opposed jeans, preferring sweatpants because they didn't itch. That earned me negative cool points. It wasn't until seventh grade that I finally forced myself to start wearing jeans. I also deliberately started listening to the radio for a while in the evenings so I'd be familiar with the right music.

I knew deep inside that even at the worst, I wasn't the problem that caused all of the seeming disdain they directed at me. I had other social experiences that showed me I could fit in. I played on a community soccer team without any social issues. During the summer months, when I was still too young to be left at home alone, I spent my time at a day care center. I never caught the misfit bug there. In fact, if anything, I was a little bit popular at the day care.

I also knew that my grade school as a whole wasn't the problem. A couple of female classmates treated me like a normal person rather than an oddball. They weren't exactly friends, though, more like neutral entities. I even had a best friend who attended my grade school. Of course there was a catch. This friend, Colleen, is two years older than I am. She had her own grade level and her own struggles with classmates. I've known Colleen since first grade, and our friendship is important to me to this day.

In seventh grade, things got better. A new girl transferred to the school — I'll call her Melissa. Melissa figured out that she wouldn't be accepted by our vile female classmates any more than I was. She had a tendency to tell wild stories, and other students called her a liar. As for me, I never cared whether the stories were true or false as long as I got to listen. Melissa and I became friends, and suddenly I had someone to talk with at recess again, someone to rant with about the frustrations of the clique girls and how they treated us.

Later I learned Melissa defaulted to spending time with me only because she had no other options. When we started high school, I noticed that she seemed to avoid me.

I asked her simply, "Do you still want to be friends?"

"Not really, no," came her simple response.

Camaraderie doesn't stretch as far as it did once upon a time. I walked away with disappointment, but I didn't dwell on it long. I was busy adjusting to high school life and remembering dozens of new names.

A Barely Necessary Section About Boys

The Kiss Chronicles project has a lot to do with kissing, so I'd better bring up at least a little bit about boys in this chapter.

As a young girl, I had a mild interest in boys and a significant interest in heroes, knights, and princes. My love of fairy tales, which still persists today, began at a young age, so I believed wholeheartedly in quests, magic, and the power of a first kiss. I had little practical knowledge about boys and how to get their interest, but that didn't matter much to me because I could always make up my own stories and characters and make them fall deeply in love. My flights of childhood fantasy grew over time into a love of literature and creative writing.

I looked forward to my first kiss, but at the time it seemed like something distant and inaccessible, like a magical talisman sealed away in a remote tower. In retrospect, I wasn't far from the truth.

Some of the other girls in my grade school class had more practical interests in boys. They argued about which boy band singer was the hottest, a few bold ones flirted with the boys in our class, and they discussed their crushes amongst themselves. By sixth grade, an occasional boyfriend-girlfriend pairing became evident, but such pairings rarely lasted longer than a month. In seventh grade, one of the girls even managed to get a boyfriend who was — gasp! — in the eighth grade. Her catch was a big deal among the girls.

I overheard her complaining about her mom restricting how long she could talk on the phone with her older boyfriend. "I don't understand my mom's problem," my classmate said. "She acts like I'm going to get pregnant from talking on the phone."

Her statement shocked me a little, but after a few moments thinking about it, I privately agreed with the mother's decision. If my classmate could so easily make the connection between herself spending excessive time with a boy and pregnancy, I thought the mother might have a valid reason for setting limits. Besides, the girl was one of my tormentors, and her whining was irritating, so I would have silently agreed with anything her mother did to make her life difficult.

Another time, I overheard the same girl talking with a small group of classmates about her boyfriend.

"He likes to flirt with girls, but I don't want him cheating on me," she said. "I'm not sure what to do."

The other girls murmured sympathetic statements to her, and then one of them offered a suggestion.

"You should just have him hang out with Virginia," she said, oblivious to the fact that I sat at a desk within hearing distance. "Then you won't ever have to worry about him flirting."

The girls laughed, and the words lodged in my mind like a hypnotic suggestion. (You could even liken it to an inception if you're familiar with the movie _Inception._ ) Those words made me readjust my world view. Beginning that day, I firmly believed that I was not attractive to boys. It took me over a decade to shake that belief loose.

* * *

I remember my first crush, which came about before the preceding incidents, when I was in the sixth grade. I developed an infatuation with a boy at my school. I'll call him Jack. I thought that Jack was just right for me for two reasons: He was cute, and he played soccer, which gave us something in common. He was also well-liked, popular with both the boys and girls of our class, which was a plus. It seemed perfectly natural and logical that I'd have a crush on him. I also remember hesitantly confessing to one of the nice girls in my class that I liked him.

One day, on the playground for recess, I saw Jack dribbling a soccer ball. It rolled away from him and toward me, so I intercepted it and passed it back to him, hoping for a chance at interaction, maybe a soccer discussion.

"What position do you play?" I asked him.

I didn't get a response. He avoided looking at me. He took the soccer ball and returned to where the other boys were playing. I understood immediately. _He knows I like him,_ I thought. Either my attraction had been obvious to him or someone had told him via a gossip chain. Even if he didn't know, he wasn't interested.

I didn't push the issue. I let it drop then and there because I was savvy to the social rules at that point. Trying to act on my crush could potentially bring me the teasing attention of the boys as well as the girls, and I preferred to remain on neutral terms with the boys. I was too busy trying to fit in with the girls to worry about attracting Jack's attention. I had to work on peer acceptance first. I could put off crushes until later.

I wasn't the only outcast. I had a gender counterpart, a boy who didn't fit in — I'll give him the name Stan. Stan had it worse than I did. Both genders shunned him. Stan was overweight and quiet to the point of being withdrawn. The girls, well, they cheerfully explained to me, repeatedly, that Stan liked me and that we should be together. It was just one of their ways of keeping me in my place on the outside. Although I shouldn't have, I resented Stan for that. He was one of the sticks the girl demons used to beat me, so I had to stay as far away from him as possible. If I so much as talked to him, I would hear that we should be girlfriend and boyfriend, a misfit match made in heaven.

My attitude toward Stan made it easy to understand Jack's uninterested attitude toward me. Jack having any interest in me would have been a punishable social crime.

I had another minor crush after Jack. The second crush was based on a very different criterion, much simpler — I liked him because he was funny. That was it. Again, I didn't take action, and for the same reasons. I had bigger social fish to fry.

Goody Goody

I've heard and read a lot of cases in which social pariahs in classroom settings showed drastic drops in academic achievement. Such was not the case with me.

What do you get when you mix a young girl who's eager for approval, who's good at memorization, and who's better at socializing with people who are older rather than with her limited peer group? You get a goody-two-shoes.

_Teachers loved me._ I gobbled up whatever praise they gave, went and studied whatever they handed to me, and then eagerly came back for more praise. Where my peers failed to supply me with positive attention, the teachers had no such problem.

I've never thought of myself as being particularly smart. I just always wanted the good grades because they resulted in the approval and praise I craved. "You did a good job." "Congratulations." "How about we just put another plus by that A?" These were my bread and butter. Getting answers right meant I was talented at something, acceptable. It meant warm smiles.

Due to my circumstances, I failed to develop the modern student's antagonism toward teachers. I never tended to see teachers or professors as being out to get me just because they handed me difficult work to accomplish or because they gave me something boring to read.

"Look out for Mrs. SoAndSo!" fellow students tried to warn me. "She's a total witch, never gives As."

And I nodded with wide eyes, listening intently to the horror stories of past years. I walked into Mrs. SoAndSo's classroom, certain of my own demise, but I walked out months later with an A and a great deal of confusion about what the other students had been fussing over.

Amusingly enough, the parents of my peers also tended to like me. I received, more than once, indications that they wanted their girls to spend time with me because they thought I was a good kid and potentially a good influence. This fact earned me yet more negative cool points, but the irony makes me smile now.

I even managed to garner approval from adults I never spoke with. As a part of being in a Catholic grade school, we attended Mass twice weekly as a class. My mom mentioned more than once that she received compliments on how well behaved I was during Mass. She received these compliments from other congregation members who sat farther back in the pews behind the classes. She got those compliments because I didn't talk during Mass like the other girls did — of course, if I'd had someone to talk to, I probably would have.

The result of all this was that I developed some serious goody-goody tendencies that still persist today. I want to be thought of as a good person, someone who avoids getting in trouble and is reliable. I'm rigidly fixed about the importance of honesty. I even floss regularly, not only to keep my teeth in good shape, but also so I'll be praised at the dentist's office for taking "such wonderfully good care" of my teeth. I eat up those kinds of compliments.

Sometimes I attempt to shed the halo and be rebellious. It doesn't get very far. To date, the biggest attempt I made was getting my eyebrow pierced when I was studying abroad during college. I managed to surprise my parents, but they barely commented on it. The rest of my family just saw it as me being quirky. Oh yeah, I'm a wild rabble-rouser.

And Sometimes the World Falls Down

I was ten years old the first time my world tilted on its axis. March 29, 1992 was a Sunday. My brother Eric, at the age of twenty-two, was living at home, and that morning I woke up to the sound of him throwing up in the bathroom down the hall. I didn't think too much of it — I figured he had the flu (the "tummy bug" as my mom called it). Without getting up, I shouted something toward him about how awful he sounded, trying to make it a joke. Then I curled back up in bed.

I went to church with my parents like usual, and Eric stayed home. After church, Mom ushered Eric out the door to take him to visit a 24-hour medical center and get him checked out. I settled in to start watching television for the whole day. My spring break week was just starting, and I planned to enjoy it to the fullest.

Sometime later, the phone rang, and I answered.

"Hello?"

"Good morning," a man said. I didn't recognize the voice. "Is Mark Sanders available?"

"Yes, hold on just a minute." I set the phone on the counter and stepped outside the back door. I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, "Dad! Phone call!"

A moment later, he came out of the detached garage. "I'll be right there."

When Dad picked up the phone, I considered my duty fulfilled, so I wandered away to watch TV. However, when he finished his conversation, Dad came to find me.

"That was a physician," Dad said. "They did some blood tests on Eric, and they decided he needed further testing, so they sent him and your mother to Parkview Hospital. I'm going to meet them there. Are you okay with staying here by yourself for a while?"

"Sure. I'll guard the house," I said.

He left for the hospital, and I remained home alone.

Time passed slowly, and the house stood quiet and still. I knew something unusual was happening, but I decided to be patient and stick with my movie. I watched _The Journey of Natty Gann,_ which was one of my favorites. An adult would eventually explain whatever was happening.

At some point in the afternoon, Dad came home.

"We can't find Eric. Has he been here?" he wanted to know.

My brother had disappeared from his hospital room, and Dad hoped that maybe he had come home. I told Dad that I hadn't seen him, and Dad said that Eric was still needed at the hospital to run some more tests. He told me to call the hospital and let someone know if Eric happened to show up. Then Dad left again.

Something was wrong. I stayed alert after that, wondering whether maybe Eric would arrive, having given everyone the slip so he could run away. He was a world traveler and one of _my_ big brothers, so I figured he had made a grand escape. I'd get him to explain what was going on as soon as he arrived.

Eric didn't come home, though. Later, when Mom and Dad came back, he wasn't with them. They sat me down on the couch between them and explained to me that Eric had died.

"No," was my immediate response. It didn't make any sense. "No. You're joking."

It was not a joke. They explained that the doctors had discovered that Eric had something called leukemia. I had no idea what that was. My parents told me in the simplest terms that it was a disease that attacked the blood. However, they went on, he didn't die of the disease. He had killed himself.

Only years later would I learn that leukemia is a type of cancer.

Only many, many years later, nineteen years in fact, would I have a conversation with Mom that opened my eyes to an important detail. In the summer of 2011, because I'd started Kiss Chronicles, I was exploring the BlogHer website and reading articles. I came across an article about suicide. I decided I wanted to talk to Mom about the article. As we talked, Mom explained that Eric's blood count at the time of his diagnosis was _incredibly_ low, and he wasn't getting proper oxygen to his brain. He made a rash decision when his ability to reason was compromised. He couldn't think clearly.

Cancer, you are a complete son of a bitch. Hateyouverymuch.

* * *

As I mentioned earlier, I don't remember a lot of specific things my classmates said to me, things they said to make me feel like an outcast . . . with a few exceptions.

After Eric died, one of the girls in my fifth-grade class had a birthday party coming up. My own plans for a birthday party had fallen through because my birthday had come just a week and a half after the funeral, and I'd had a small celebration with family. I hadn't expected to receive the invitation to the other girl's party, so I was pleased to receive it . . . at least, until one of the demons of my class came to deliver the news.

"She only invited you because she felt sorry for you," the demon told me. I didn't understand what she meant. She had to spell it out for me. "You know, because of your brother."

I didn't attend the party. Even young girls have their pride.

CHRONICLE:

The Girl Next Door

by Stephan Michael Loy

We sat on the retaining wall bordering two sides of the apartment building's porch and swung our feet out and in, out and in. We were six years old. It was 1962, or maybe '63, I forget.

"This kissin' thing's disgusting," I said.

Karla Ward, the literal girl next door, dressed in a black and white church dress, petticoat, and saddle shoes, looked out into the projects courtyard as if it were her private fiefdom. "I ain't never gonna kiss no germy boy!"

"Yes you will. Ever'body does."

"So's you gonna kiss no germy boy?"

"No!"

"Well, me, neither. I ain't gonna kiss no germy boy."

"Then you ain't never gettin' married, is you?"

"Am so!"

"Are not!"

"Am so!"

"Karla, how you gonna get married if you don't kiss no boy? Boys don't marry girls they ain't kissed."

"I ain't marryin' no boy. I'm gonna marry a real man, like Scott Carpenter!"

"Scott Carpenter's already married. I seen him on the TV."

"Don't make no diff'rence. I said," and she laid heavy emphasis on the word _said,_ "that I'll marry a man like Scott Carpenter, not the real Scott Carpenter. He too old!"

"And you crazy."

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"Well, if I'm crazy, I still ain't kissin' no germy boy."

"Okay, so why don't you just kiss me?"

She leaned away and stared in shock at that affront to her girly dignity. "Youse a dirty, germy old boy!"

"I brush my teeth."

"Your crooked teeth?

"Hey! You ain't got no teeth up front. Don't you go carryin' on 'bout no crooked teeth!"

She tired of her disapproving pose and went back to swinging her feet. Out and in, out and in. "I'm sorry. I was rude. Mamma says I got me a big mouth."

"Yo mamma's right. And you always runnin' it."

"Well, at least I ain't usin' it to kiss no germy boy."

"The way I see it, since we live right next door, the way I see it, we gots the same germs anyway."

"I'm a girl. I ain't got no germs."

"You got germs, they just ain't as noticeable. Like, you had the measles back then, an' you went an' gave 'em to me."

"That's diff'rent. Ever'body gets the measles."

"Yeah, but you gave 'em to me, that's what my mamma said, anyway."

"I did not. I was feelin' too poorly to go give you nothin'."

"I didn't mean you gave 'em to me like that, but you had the measles germs and they floated around to me and gave me your measles. That's how."

"Well. If my measles germs came and got with your dirty ol' boy germs, I am highly scandalized."

"And, when you was sick, before I was sick, I brung you your homework, didn't I?"

Understand, homework in kindergarten is draw a picture and eat your vegetables, and the school supplied the paper. Not the vegetables.

"Yeah, I guess so."

"So maybe I deserve a kiss, 'cause I was all chiv'rous an' shit."

"Hush yo mouth! Talkin' like that, an' I'm a lady!"

"Sorry. But I done it, didn't I? With the homework?"

"You just wanna kiss me 'cause my dress is pretty."

"I don't wanna kiss you at all. I was just wonderin' what it was all about."

"Well, you just keep on wonderin', 'cause you a dirty, germy boy!"

"I washed my face."

"Really? Why would you do that? It's Saturday!"

"I washed my hair, too."

"Don't look it."

"But I did."

"Well. Okay. If you washed your hair and brushed your teeth and washed your face, I guess it's all right."

"I reckon so."

"So. You want to kiss me, or do I kiss you?"

"I reckon we both kinda kiss at the same time."

"Okay."

We turned just our faces toward one another.

Karla rocked her feet faster. "Okay. When I get to three, kiss! One, two . . ."

She laughed, lifting her hands to her mouth to hide her two missing teeth.

"What?" I asked.

"You look funny!"

"What? I was all puckered up, like on TV."

"And you looked funny!"

"So did you!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Okay, but don't pucker up so much. One, two — Close your eyes!"

"What?"

"I can't kiss no boy if he lookin' at me. Starin' like a fish, you is!"

"How do I kiss you if I don't know where you are?"

"Just close your eyes. Okay. One, two . . . three."

Our dry, still lips connected, like pushing your fingertips together. After a moment, we disconnected and went back to swinging our legs.

"That was okay," she said.

"I guess so," I said.

"You tell anybody we done this, I'll beat you up!" She shook a fist at me.

"I won't tell nobody."

"I'll beat you up!"

"Okay, okay."

"I gots my reputation to see after."

After a moment, not long before her mother would call her for church, she turned toward me and leaned her shoulder into mine. That put her face inches away. "Y'know, now I can't marry Scott Carpenter. I gots to marry you."

"I ain't never gettin' married."

"Yes you are. You marryin' me."

"No, I ain't gettin' married. Girls is too much trouble, 'cept for the kissin' part."

"Well, you gonna love bein' married to me, 'cause I'm a lady!"

"Kaaaaarla! Time for church!" her mother called from the door of their apartment.

Karla hopped down from the wall and dusted off the seat of her dress. "You come on over when we get back. We'll play house, and I'll show you my baby."

"I don't wanna play no dolls."

"Ain't no doll, it's my baby. It's your baby, too, since you kissed me."

"But I don't wanna play with no dolls!"

"You come over or I'll beat you up, you dirty, germy, nasty boy!"

And such is the course of love.

### Chapter 4

Growing Up? Don't You Mean Growing Geek?

The girl made many wonderful friends. She befriended people and sprites and fairies and dweebs and even an ogre.

Do you know that warm feeling when you finally find your place? It's a comfortable feeling that comes from deep inside and says, "This is the right spot for me to exist." That special feeling can be as simple and small as finding your assigned seat at E25 in a theatre or concert venue. Or the feeling can be as deep and complex as shopping for a home and stepping into a building where you receive a rush of realization that tells you it's the right place to live for the next few decades.

This chapter expresses some of that feeling, as well as stories about my friends, boyfriends, and how I grew into myself.

Friends

After I put my grade school days behind me and entered high school, I turned into a happy camper. My little pond expanded into a lake called Bishop Dwenger High School, and the social structure where I didn't belong disappeared, _poof,_ as though it had never been. On a daily basis, I still saw most of the same people I'd gone to grade school with, but I also saw many more unfamiliar faces. In the new hallways lined with lockers, I stood on even social footing with the classmates I'd known for the previous eight years.

I found my place ready and waiting for me. I was one of the studious kids, one of the kids in the Advanced Placement (AP) classes, one of the kids who tried out for every school play and who joined the speech team. I was a geek, and a bit odd, and it wasn't a detriment.

What a relief I felt to know being me didn't mean being broken or faulty.

I made friends with the people who had their own share of quirks. Beth and Sara entered my life with their death-defying reading of magazines in Geometry class. I'd never seen a teacher's veins bulge in his forehead that way before. I also had never realized how scary a flying magazine could be when a teacher hurls it at a wall. Sara loved card games, and I got to know Beth through the first theatre musical of my high school career, _Cotton Patch Gospel._ I occasionally start singing lyrics from the play just to make Beth cringe.

Beth and I, along with another friend, went out on class volunteer missions and bonded while washing angry shelter cats and chasing hyper puppies. Over the four years, we three gradually became very close, going on various adventures together, brainstorming a romance novel trilogy that never got written, staying up talking late into the night.

Later in my high school career, Andy showed up with his black hair and horror movies and deliberate attempts to shock the Creative Writing teacher with stories of baby vampires sucking blood through a straw. I spent theatrical time with Andy as well when he took on the role of Scrooge in _A Christmas Carol,_ which he did a fabulous job in when he finally learned his lines the night before the performance. He added a flavor of goth to our circle of friends, as well as a bit of bad-boy flair.

Basically, I found my people, and the discovery didn't require the mothership returning to Earth for me. I loved high school.

I did not, however, push my luck. Ordinary high school drama occurred all around me, but I knew how to recognize and avoid it. I kept my nose clean and stayed away from anything socially risky — except where theatre was concerned. I stood chin-deep in whatever social muck happened in or around the high school theatre activities, but only because theatre people require drama to survive. I caused some of it myself, thank you very much. A friend once had to warn me that my fellow thespians were plotting ways to do away with me because I'd gotten uppity enough to say they ought to learn their lines and listen to directions. Go figure.

Outside of school and play rehearsals, I spent little time with my classmates. I didn't attend any school sporting events. Sports, particularly football and wrestling, were as big a deal at Bishop Dwenger as at any other high school. Classes often ended early on Fridays so that the entire school could cram onto the gym bleachers for pep rallies. I didn't feel the need to attend the games. I lacked interest in passively watching sports, and I wanted to avoid being noticed, identified, and called out for my oddities. I'd already had enough of that in grade school.

For similar reasons, I didn't go to high school parties or dances, with the exception of senior prom. By the time my senior year came around, I felt I'd grown into a confident _me._ I thought of going to the winter formal that year, but I decided not to because I didn't have a date. When senior prom time came around, I wasn't going to let datelessness get in my way. I did what any respectable, single girl geek would do: I bought a faux medieval-style dress from Hot Topic and went stag, er, doe. I'm female, so I couldn't really go stag, could I?

Every now and then, someone tries to tell me that I missed out by not going to football games or dances while I was in high school. It's part of growing up, after all. But really, what did I miss out on?

* The latest gossip on what girl did such-and-such with that boy behind the bleachers? Please. I wasn't interested.

* The excitement of the game? Yawn.

* The camaraderie of cheering for the school team? I fulfilled my cheering quota at the pep rallies and walked away satisfied and happy.

* The awkwardness of teenagers dancing? Teenagers do not actually break out into stunning choreographed numbers as portrayed in movies. Reality has more to do with spastic limb twitching to fast songs or awkward, stiff swaying to slow songs. No, I don't feel deprived.

* My first kiss? Hmm. Maybe. Maybe not. It's impossible to say for sure. I didn't exactly have guys trailing after me.

At school, I stuck close to my fellow geeks. However, I had another group of friends who went to another high school. Earlier in the story, I mentioned Colleen, my friend from grade school. Colleen attended a different high school, but we remained close. One Friday, not long after the end of my freshman year, as Mom and I browsed the selection at a video rental store, I spotted Colleen and her friend Shelley. Shelley was Colleen's age, two years ahead of me, and she had gone to my grade school as well, but I hadn't spoken with her much. She'd always seemed very shy to me. Shelley was having a birthday slumber party that night.

"You should come!" they said.

Wait, what? Really? I could go to a party on such short notice?

"It's fine. We'll make arrangements," my mom agreed.

And, overnight, I gained a new and unexpected set of friends. I met Colleen's and Shelley's other friends, Anna, Laura, and Denise. During that slumber party, I found out all about The Time Warp, Janet, Brad, and Dr. Frank-N-Furter.

These became the friends I spent my time with outside of school, especially Colleen and Shelley. At their suggestion, I joined them for Youth Ministry meetings for our church. They were lectors at church — that is, people who read passages from the Bible. I followed in their footsteps and picked up the lectoring habit. The three of us attended the National Catholic Youth Conference together during my junior year, and the trip became one of the best and busiest weekends of my young life. We wore ourselves out. Shelley and I had to team up and force Colleen to wake up so she could take out her contacts for the night. Colleen growled, which only made us laugh.

On the van ride home from the conference, Shelley got a kiss from one of the boys traveling with us. I was insanely jealous.

Shelley, far from being the shy girl I'd thought she was in grade school, was actually gregarious and strong minded. She acted as the leader that held our small circle of friends together, and the five of us openly acknowledged the role she filled as the glue of our group. When we wanted to go to a movie, Shelley made certain everyone could make it. When we went camping, Shelley organized and listed what we needed to take but only because we couldn't survive on Swiss Cake Rolls alone.

When I was seventeen, a senior, my world experienced an unexpected tilt for the second time. On Sunday, March 14, 1999, Shelley died in a car accident. Her younger sister, Megan, was with her, and she also died. Shelley, then a college student, had been driving Megan home from visiting her at college for the weekend. A patch of ice on the road.

"Devastation" doesn't quite cover the experience.

Words fail me. The cursor line blinks at me, telling me "yeah right; no way are you writing about this." I've been starting at it blinking for half an hour as I sift through my memories. When I let myself think about it for too long, the experience feels fresh, tender, like it just happened.

In the months after the funeral, as my classmates and I prepared to graduate, I wore a Celtic cross under my shirt to school every day, next to my heart. The Celtic cross had always been special to Shelley, who was so fond of her Irish roots. I used the pendant to hold myself together when it would have been easier to fall apart.

The bond I had with the circle of friends that Shelley drew me into will never truly go away. We supported one another in the months and first few years after the loss. However, the tight unity that we had, for which Shelley had been the fulcrum, gradually faded, and our connections loosened over time as I moved away and we each took new paths in life. I'm still very close to Colleen, and to this day we mention Shelley in ordinary conversations.

I remember, the summer before Shelley died, looking at her and telling her that she and Colleen were my best friends. I saw on her face how much it meant to her, like it was some sort of unexpected honor or privilege, which surprised me, because I was the one who was blessed and lucky to have her in my life.

* * *

As our awareness of the wider world grows, we pick and choose the things in our culture that we love the most. Our friends show us many of the options we have to choose from. These people I grew up with each helped me develop different sides of myself. I wouldn't be the person I am today without them.

Boyfriends

Unlike my friends, my boyfriends didn't have much to do with how I grew and developed. I had two boyfriends during high school. Wait. Let me elaborate on that. I've had two boyfriends in my entire life, both of them during my high school years.

"How can you have had boyfriends and not gone to any dances?" is what you might be thinking. You might even follow that with "And if you had boyfriends in high school, you must have had your first kiss!" Not true. Let me explain.

My first boyfriend came about because of some flirting in gym class at the end of freshman year. Because the year was winding down and the gym teachers didn't have much structured activity left to throw at us, we sometimes had freedom to play at the end of class. Somehow, I ended up playing basketball with one of the freshman boys, just the two of us, and some sort of female intuition clicked in my mind and told me, "He's flirting. He's interested."

I'll call him Basketball Flirt, or B.F. for short.

B.F. flirted well. He came in close and moved away, all in the spirit of fun and basketball, but also in the spirit of testing the waters. He made physical contact, but nothing pushy. I responded favorably, trying to mirror his actions even though I lacked his athletic ability. A sweet, tall, attractive guy showing open interest? Damn straight I responded favorably.

I must have managed to do something right because, when class ended, we traded numbers. Success!

A few days later, with the rush of students running out of the academic halls, the year ended. Bummer. Things had just started to get interesting.

Over summer, B.F. and I traded phone calls on a semi-regular basis. We talked about nothing of consequence, and we eventually declared ourselves girlfriend and boyfriend even though we hadn't seen each other since summer break started. And we continued to not see each other. I brought up the vague notion of going out on a date, but it never worked out for one lame reason or another, mostly because of a lack of transportation.

Then B.F. told me he had to transfer to another school. I can't remember the reason. It might have been money, or it might have been a family thing. The reason mattered less to me than the disappointment that I wouldn't get to see him again when sophomore year started. That disappointment lasted an entire half a day before a book on my reading list distracted me.

So, for the first semester of my sophomore year, I had a boyfriend at a different high school. That made me feel sophisticated, even though he and I never went on dates and spoke over the phone only occasionally. In all honesty, I sometimes even forgot I had a boyfriend because it slipped my mind.

When the second semester started, B.F. transferred back to my high school. (I'm sure there's an explanation for the transferring. Perhaps he belonged to a family of international spies.) Because we attended the same high school again, I thought our interactions might become more frequent and fun. I felt excited about his return at first, and I expected to see him regularly. However, we barely talked. I spoke with a girlfriend to ask whether my situation was normal, and she agreed that it seemed strange.

While B.F. and I were a couple, his birthday came around. I bought him something small and silly that I could afford and gave it to him at school. (I admit it was a fox beanie baby toy and some other cheap trinket. Please just pretend you didn't read that, though.) I thought B.F. would try to kiss me then — it was his birthday, after all, and a good opportunity. I felt nervous, wondering whether he would or wouldn't try. But he didn't make an attempt, and we parted ways like usual.

One day, B.F. walked up to me at the beginning of Spanish class. We hadn't spoken for about a week. I asked him why we were boyfriend and girlfriend, but he didn't have an answer, so I took the role of the bad guy and ended it. B.F. didn't make a peep of protest, so I think he agreed, or at least it didn't upset him as far as I could tell. The relationship ended as quietly as it had begun, without any drama.

Sometime after we broke up, he said to me, "When you gave me my birthday present, you looked like you would smack me if I tried to kiss you."

Oops?

As it turned out, I must have been giving off the wrong vibes. Apparently I'm scary when I'm nervous. I'm also nervous on a fairly regular basis. No wonder I'd never been kissed! _It all makes sense now!_

None of the other boys at my high school showed any interest in me, and the one or two that I developed an interest in always had a girlfriend, so I expected to go through the rest of my high school days single. I didn't, though, not quite.

I had a second (and final) boyfriend during my junior year of high school, but we met over the Internet, never in person. I met Josh in an online community, an AOL chat room for book lovers and role players, and we discovered we both read the same types of books. He lived in Texas, far away from my Indiana home.

Over the course of many book discussions and role playing games with fellow geeks in the AOL chat rooms, we decided we had fallen for each other. Josh and I progressed to calling on the phone occasionally, and we each sent the other wallet-sized high school photos of ourselves. His picture showed me an average-looking guy. He was very large, and he had sort of a goofy smile without any lips, and he had kind eyes.

We acted dopey over each other. I think the stories and fairy tales had gone to our heads. Looking back, I can clearly see the relationship as a case of my younger self wanting to play at being in love. I thought it was serious and real at the time, but now I can't help but laugh because I was actually _trying_ to be in love.

Now, if you happen to wonder how I know that Josh wasn't an online predator, I'm sure that he wasn't. Why am I sure? Simple. He didn't ask for sexual favors. To be a predator, a person has to do some preying. Whether or not he actually was a young man of about my age, that I can't guarantee. I know he was male because we spoke on the phone, but there's a possibility that he wasn't my age, as he claimed to be.

For Christmas, Josh sent me a weird gift, a large doll that his grandmother had made. It was a doll of Josh, and it wore some of his used toddler clothes. I know he meant to be sweet, but that doll gave me the heebee jeebees.

The creepy doll failed to scare me off, though. In fact, after Josh and I had been together for a couple months, we made plans for him to drive to my home so we could finally meet. Josh canceled shortly before the date of the visit, explaining that someone had slashed his tires. The excuse sounded strange to me, wrong somehow. I'll never be sure whether the slashing truly happened because we split up shortly after that.

Myself

My system for socializing in high school worked beautifully. Outside of school, I had a group of friends that I fit in with, and I could go on adventures with them. In school, I had the leisure to gradually come to trust my classmates, and eventually I started spending time with some of them outside of the school setting.

I did very well at going unobserved at my school, but I didn't manage to totally escape the notice of all the snobs and the haughty types. They just never managed to strike at me very hard or with any consistency . . . if the strike even landed at all.

One day, I arrived first for computer class, like usual. The room was empty. The teacher, Mr. G, who was also a gym teacher, arrived after I did. I booted my computer and settled in to wait for class.

Two girls arrived. These two existed far outside my social ring. Their interests lay more in fashion and boys than school work. I'll call them Eyeliner and Backup Girl. Eyeliner had brown hair and a somewhat thick body shape, and Backup Girl had midnight black hair. They would have been pretty girls, if only they hadn't been trying so hard to be pretty, if they'd worn lighter makeup and smiled rather than trying to look sultry and grown up. I had no quarrel with either of them, but neither did I ever talk with them.

They looked around at the classroom, devoid of students, except me.

"Oh, we're early," Eyeliner said to Backup. "Let's go." They turned to exit and wander the hallways.

"Come on in, ladies," said Mr. G. "Have a seat."

"But nobody's here," said Backup Girl. "We'll come back when class starts."

"That's not true," said Mr. G. "Virginia's here. Class will start in just a couple minutes."

Eyeliner smiled condescendingly at the teacher. "Sure, but she doesn't have a life. I do."

It stung just a little. I flushed and focused on the computer, but I wasn't going to push back on such a little blow. I also didn't care to explain to Eyeliner that the whole reason I didn't appear to have a life was simple strategy to avoid people like her. I would play it cool, and they would leave and return at the last possible second before the bell rang, and I'd be better off for it. It didn't go down like that, though.

"Her life here is to be a student, and she's doing _exactly_ what she's supposed to be doing." Mr. G's usually pleasant, placid features twisted downward. "You shouldn't even comment on her. Meanwhile, you both could use this time before class to get some work done, so _have a seat,_ ladies."

Eyeliner and Backup Girl, both humbled to silence, slouched into the room and found their seats. Behind them, other students started filing in for class.

I never saw that one coming.

I didn't know Mr. G well. I never spent any special amount of time talking with him for either gym or computing. He had no personal reason to defend me. He did that out of decency.

I was flabbergasted.

The thought has, more than once, crossed my mind that I'd like to thank Mr. G for what he said to those girls. I didn't at the time — the moment had stunned me so deeply that I didn't even think of thanking him. Although I doubt he remembers it, that moment had a huge and positive impact on me.

* * *

In one of my AP English classes, I once memorized an entire canto from Dante's _Inferno._ I chose the canto on gluttony because it didn't have quite as many lines as the others. Then, after memorizing it, I delivered it in class. This activity was voluntary. I did this just for fun. I committed the canto to short-term memory, so if you were to ask me about it today, I wouldn't be able to come up with even one line.

I set myself this challenge of memorizing a canto because I wanted to see whether I could do it. I wanted to prove to myself that I could. My brother Eric, well, one of the cool things I remembered about him was that he had memorized _The Cat in the Hat._ He did it just because he could. When your big brother can recite an entire Dr. Seuss book, he gets a billion cool points.

When it came time to deliver the canto in class, I had it down. I stumbled only once or twice. At some point in the middle of my delivery, one of the boys in the front row made a snide, whispered comment and gave a laugh. Without missing a beat, I met his eyes and kept going, delivering several lines of the canto directly to him with confidence. That shut him up. In that moment, I knew I'd come a long way from the girl I'd been in grade school.

During my senior year, the drama director put on a performance of _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ — a very ambitious endeavor for our school, which didn't always get large turnouts for auditions. To my delight, I got the role of Helena, the second of the two female leads. Sadly, the director didn't add any kisses to the blocking. I had a very cute Demetrius cast to play opposite me, and I would have been delighted to lock lips with him. The course of first kisses never did run smooth.

My senior year, I was voted Most Dramatic female for my theatrical efforts. I may not have gone to a single sporting event, but I participated in every one of the school plays, with roles ranging from chorus to bit character to female lead.

* * *

I can summarize my four high school years in these words: friends, study, theatre, and fun.

High school didn't hold any kisses for me, but considering the fact that most people look back on their high school experiences with shudders of disgust, I wouldn't trade my high school history for anyone else's.

### Chapter 5

The Opposite (of) Sex

However, the girl never met the right boy with whom she could share her first kiss.

It's fair to say I'm not good with guys. Actually, you could say I'm horrible with guys, and I'd let you get away with it. This chapter offers you a look at my past shenanigans in relation to the opposite gender so you'll know a bit more of what I'm talking about.

My Type of Guy

Whenever people ask me "So, what's your type?" I give the same response.

"I don't really know what my type is. I only know it when I see it." I don't see it very often, though.

This whole first kiss thing wouldn't be a problem if I weren't so picky. And I'm not sure even _picky_ is the right word to describe it. I feel, in some ways, because I'm not even looking for a specific type, I'm not fully in control. When I look around in my life, I either notice a guy that catches my interest or I don't. Usually I don't. And if I don't, I can't conjure interest for a guy out of thin air.

"But why don't you just give a guy a chance and see whether you can develop an interest?"

I tried that. Like I said, I can't force myself to feel interested if I'm not. When I do develop interest, it usually happens very slowly.

I've taken a liking to various types of guys in the past. If you were to ask me whether I like the sporty type, the geek type, the artistic type, the punk type, the professional type, or the casual type, I'd just reply with, "Sure, send me one of each."

I can tell you a bunch of details that I like, but those details don't necessarily add up to a specific type.

Physically, I like big smiles and expressive faces. If a guy has a repertoire of only three or four facial expressions, I get bored. When it comes to body types, I prefer a runner or swimmer build to a more muscular build, but various builds have caught my eye before. Lately, I confess, I've noticed that I have a weakness for dimples. Give me two dents on either side of a big smile, and I turn to goo.

In terms of personality, I've developed interests in both bold and shy guys, serious and silly guys. One element I always prefer in the personality area is passion. If a guy doesn't truly, deeply care about something, I wouldn't be able conjure a spark of interest even if you handed me a flamethrower.

If I did prefer a specific type of guy, I think I'd be in much better shape. It's difficult to find someone when you don't know much about who you're looking for.

First Date

I went dateless through four years of college. When I attended my college graduation ceremony, I sat next to a friendly and flirtatious guy, and he asked for my phone number. Yes, I got picked up at my graduation by somebody I'd never met. Have I proven to you yet that I rarely do anything the normal way?

I didn't hear from Graduation Guy right away — he didn't call until at least a month later. During that month, I was wrapped up in starting my internship for the summer and moving to a new residence. When I finally got a call from him, I'd almost forgotten about the flirty guy at the graduation ceremony. We talked on the phone for a while. Then he asked me whether I'd like to go out to a movie and hang out, and I happily accepted.

Graduation Guy came to pick me up. His car underwhelmed me. Oh, I'm not talking about the outside. Car makes and models are wasted on me. I'm referring to the fact that the inside resembled a junkyard. Various items littered the seats, floors, and dashboard, much of it trash. I hope I'm not being too snobbish when I say that if I'm being picked up for a date, I would prefer that the passenger seat didn't have to be urgently cleared of refuse as I tried to sit down.

We went for a walk in a park and then to the movie. The movie was something innocuous and inconsequential — I can't remember what. I do, however, remember that at some point during the movie he put his hand on my knee. I looked at it and thought, "Okay, there's a hand there. What do I do with it?" This was my first time going out on a date, so I felt uncertain about hand-to-knee etiquette and appropriate responses. I opted to ignore it and watch the movie. After the movie, he wanted to pick up a copy of NUVO, a local Indianapolis periodical, so we ran that errand, adding the newsprint to his car trash pile. Then we got ice cream. I expected that we'd sit and enjoy our soft serve treats at the Dairy Queen store and then end the date, but instead, we used the drive-through to pick up our orders.

Ice cream acquired, my date looked at me and said, "We could go back to my place to finish our ice cream. I live in a duplex."

Finishing the date and going home held more appeal, but I felt awkward and unbalanced, so I answered him without thinking through my reply.

"Sure, that's fine."

I admit, it wasn't my brightest moment.

We went to Graduation Guy's place, where I didn't actually want to be, and the short drive there gave me enough time to realize that I should have just asked to go home. I belatedly realized that going to his place might send a message that I didn't intend to give.

After we went inside and I looked over the sparse bachelor setting, I'm pretty sure I gave off obvious vibes of awkwardness and discomfort because my date didn't come anywhere near me. I suspect my body language glowed with glaring neon signs saying "Back off, need space!" He heeded the signals, and we migrated from indoors to the porch to finish our ice cream. The date ended, and he took me home.

I heard from Graduation Guy again a week later. He invited me out boating, or to a boat party, or something along those lines. I declined. Although I didn't say so to him, I felt iffy about going out boating with a man I hardly knew, and after the first date, I didn't have much interest in a second. He told me I needed to be more adventurous and take risks. Although his statement held a small sting because I did wish for more adventures, his words also sounded petty and patronizing. I don't have any regrets . . . or even any recollection of his name.

I wonder whether he ever learned to clean his car.

The Highs and Lowe's

Let me tell you about Handyman. This instance provides a perfect example of why I hesitate to respond positively when I get unexpectedly hit on by strangers. I tend to regret it, not entirely unlike the way I regret buying an attractive candy bar from a vending machine only to realize I wasted calories that I would have preferred to spend on a gourmet cookie.

I met Handyman at a Lowe's hardware store. As I browsed through cabinet fixtures, debating the merits of knobs versus handles, I looked up to see an employee sauntering toward me down the aisle. He was tall, dark, and attractive, though not my usual type of attractive. He had the solid build of a man who used to be a football player, which he indeed used to be, as he told me later.

As Handyman approached me to ask whether I needed any help, something in his eyes changed, and I received The Look. Now, if you've ever gotten The Look from another person, you know very well what I'm talking about without me even having to explain it. It's a look that takes in your appearance and gives you appreciative feedback without ever saying a single word. Also, The Look is never creepy. The Look simply says "Hi there. I like what I see." It's not something I've had happen to me very often, but that time The Look was unmistakable.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

I smiled and shook my head no. "No, thanks. Just trying to pick out handles."

And then he walked away. That was it. What, did you think something more would happen right away? Not quite yet. I'm getting there.

The next time I saw Handyman, I had invaded the Lowe's paint department and requested to have some paint mixed. That time, after helping me out, Handyman smoothly offered me a piece of paper with his first name and number on it.

"I don't want you to feel pressured or anything," he said, "but I had this opportunity and wanted to take it. You're a pretty lady, and I'd be happy if you'd give me a call sometime."

The man had a tongue of pure silver. Getting called "pretty" is nice and all, but the use of "lady" snagged my attention and nailed it to the floor.

I didn't call right away. I debated for a few days. I also had to clear up another confusing matter in my life before I could make that call. But a few days later, I took the offered bait and made the call. He expressed both surprise and appreciation at hearing from me. We talked for a while, and he sprinkled some liberal flattery my way. He had charm — a plus. He said he loved to cook — a big plus. He told me that he loved to read — an _enormous_ plus.

Then Handyman told me he read the Bible for a couple hours each day. He was Christian, and in his own words, he said he "comes in the name of Jesus." He explained that he didn't eat pork, or certain shellfish, in accordance with Biblical dietary laws.

Cue the sound of screeching tires.

I have a few fears in life. Spiders give me the willies. I also can't stand the idea of suddenly seeing a face where I'm not expecting it, such as looking out a window at night and seeing a ghastly . . . okay, I'm getting the shivers just writing about it. But I have another fear in life to rival those two: Religious zealots scare the crap out of me. There, it's not PC, but I said it. Some people are afraid of things that go _bump_ in the night. I'm terrified of things that go _thump_ on religious texts.

Thumping is much too startling for me. I prefer to wallow quietly in my Catholic guilt.

Still on the phone with Handyman, I had to recover and figure out how I wanted to proceed. I decided that I couldn't let my sudden concerns get the better of me, and that I shouldn't cut this guy off before giving a solid go at getting to know him. So I had discovered a major religious difference on the first phone call — not too big a deal, right? I couldn't let that be the only deciding factor that led me to a complete shut down. So, I felt shaken, but undeterred, and I agreed to talk with him on the phone again the next day. We also made tentative plans to meet at a bookstore café that Saturday, just a few days later.

Well, the phone call the following evening didn't allay my concerns. Actually, my concerns multiplied.

"I don't celebrate Christmas or Easter," he explained. "I only celebrate events that are in the Bible."

"Like the Passover?" I asked.

"Yes, like the Passover."

"I don't think I could do without Christmas," I told him. He didn't really have a response for that except to return to his spiel about "I come to people in the name of Jesus."

During that conversation, he didn't say it outright, but I heard him muttering something about a solstice, so if I read between the lines, I think his rejection of modern holidays had to do with their historically pagan influences.

Handyman never declared any identifiable religion to me. He explained that he had done a great deal of research and was mostly self-educated. That's usually all well and good because I like such motivation. However, when it leads to snubbing Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, I object. Actually, more than anything, I just felt confused. He seemed to be following some sort of traditional Judaism with an ultra-Christian twist.

At that point, I wanted to back out of meeting up with him, but I couldn't quite manage it. I said to Handyman, "I don't think we could possibly be a match." He still wanted to meet in person regardless of my assertion. After I hung up the phone, I wished I had a way out of meeting him at the café in two days.

He called me again the following day. The conversation took a new twist.

"I used to be a football player back in the day. I used to get into a lot of trouble. I smoked marijuana and had a lot of girlfriends."

I started to feel as though I was listening to a confession. I wasn't sure why he felt the need to tell me so much about himself. I still didn't really know him. Maybe I sounded trustworthy, and he felt like pouring out his past to me?

Then he started going into detail about his ideal woman, and he basically said to me, "There's nothing wrong with a man and woman being together before marriage. When I find a lady that I love, I'm going to want to be with her and make love to her."

Wait, what? Hold on, let me get this right. Pork and shellfish, bad. Christmas, bad. Fornication, no problem? Religiously speaking, his logic seemed a little biased toward his personal convenience, which struck me as hypocritical. Actually, beyond sex being just no problem, something in the way he said it made it sound more like a requirement.

When Handyman turned the conversation back around to me, he wanted to know about my ideal type of guy. I explained that I hadn't dated much, and I didn't actually have a strict ideal.

"There's something I've been wondering because you seem a little shy. Are you a virgin?" he asked.

I paused, hesitating, but I finally answered, "I am." And because I felt awkward and needed to reassure myself, I added, "It's not something I'm ashamed of."

"Not at all, not at all," he agreed.

And if I hadn't already wanted out of the meeting the following day, his next question would have sealed the deal.

"Do you masturbate?"

" _Excuse me?"_ I squawked.

Handyman actually thought I hadn't heard him, or that I needed clarification, me being a dumb virgin and all. "Masturbate. Do you take care of your physical needs?"

We'd seen each other at the hardware store twice briefly. We'd had all of two phone conversations prior to this one. What . . . the . . . hell?

"I don't even know you," I told him. "I'm not comfortable with this conversation."

He apologized and steered the talk in a different direction.

By the time we hung up a few minutes later, I'd canceled our meeting for the following day. I shouted with relief when I got off the phone.

* * *

When some friends and I discussed the way that Handyman gave me his phone number in the preceding story, the topic sparked a vibrant and unexpected debate. One friend criticized Handyman's tactic of giving me his phone number, saying that the move was lazy on his part because it put all the pressure and potential nervousness on me because I had to decide whether I'd call him. Another friend jumped into the discussion and said that there was nothing wrong with Handyman's choice of action. My story about Handyman derailed into a discussion of opinions for exchanging numbers.

For my part, given the circumstances, Handyman made the correct choice to offer his number rather than request mine. If he'd asked me for my number, I would have said no. At that time and place, I didn't want to make a decision about whether I wanted to talk to Handyman on a personal level, so "no" would have been the default. However, because he gave me his number instead, I felt as though I'd been given freedom to decide my next move in my own time.

Here's the trivia of pursuit: If you're pursuing someone, is it better for you to give out your number or request a number? Which is easier for you to do? And when someone's pursuing you, do you prefer to give your number or receive a number? Next time you're at a party or having dinner with friends, consider bringing up these questions and seeing what people think about the subject. The ensuing conversation should provide almost as fun as asking a diverse group of people whether cheesecake is a cake or a pie.

Then There's Just Plain Creepy

I had an incident with a Creepy Neighbor. Hopefully I can get through telling you the story without hurling.

For you to fully appreciate the story, I should probably start by explaining something about myself. I grew up in a friendly neighborhood. I played with the kids who lived next door to one side of the house, and I knew and spoke with the elderly couple who lived on the other side. The street hosted large block parties a few times when I was very young. I developed a belief that part of truly being at home is knowing your neighbors by name and sharing a sense of community.

I can be withdrawn in some situations, but when it comes to neighbors, I like to engage in small talk and know names to go with the faces I see regularly. Are my Midwestern roots showing yet?

At one point after I graduated college, I had a female neighbor with two children. I never got to know her other than waving briefly as she hurried from door to car or from car to door. Her children were polite and waved hello whenever I saw them taking out the trash to the dumpster, which gave me a good impression of her.

Then, at one point, I noticed a man had entered the equation. I saw him entering or leaving her building unit, so he became New Neighbor in my mind. Being friendly, I started including him in my waving routine. At one point, we exchanged brief introductions.

A week after I met New Neighbor, I ran into him again as I took out my trash. We exchanged small talk for a few minutes. He told me about some troubles they'd had with the regulations for our complex. Nothing unusual. Right, no problem.

Wrong. It was a problem.

I went back inside and started cooking dinner. I had the windows open to let in the fresh, early fall air. As I let my meal simmer on the stove, I looked out and saw New Neighbor passing by.

"There's something on your car," he told me as he walked back to his unit. "You might want to check that out."

"Really? Okay, thanks," I replied. I figured someone must have come by and put a flyer on it.

Instead of a flyer, I found a paper towel with writing on it tucked under one of my windshield wipers. The paper towel read,

" _Hello Virgina_ [misspelled in print]

I want to be honest with you!

I think you are more than 'mouthwatering' and want you to know 'I want you'! As you have probably figured out that I live here with my girl-friend; however, I want to know if we can get together. I don't want to hurt her or you, so if you are not interested please forget this message.

[Phone number and name included at the end.] _"_

I had no more intelligible response for that other than, "Eeeeww!" Thus, New Neighbor earned the title Creepy Neighbor.

Please note: At the time, I decided to save the paper towel letter in case I ever needed evidence to get a restraining order if the guy became pushier than leaving a note on my car. I still have the note now because it's too unbelievable to throw away.

A couple of my friends suggested that I should use the paper towel to pick up some dog poop and then return it to Creepy Neighbor. Others suggested I put the note the mailbox for his girlfriend to find. Several said that I ought to tell the girlfriend about the letter. Some adamantly insisted that I needed to tell the girlfriend, that I had a moral duty to do so.

Here's the reason I didn't tell my original neighbor, the girlfriend: self-preservation. Yep, that's it. It trumped my feelings of moral obligation in this case. I refused to step into the mess because I couldn't predict the consequences of opening that little Pandora's box. I had no desire to cause massive problems for a strange man who displayed evidence of poor judgment and who knew where I lived. If I'd had some way of staying anonymous, I could have taken different actions.

So, I counted on Creepy Neighbor to mess up some other way and get caught and dumped on his own. A guy like that can hide his nature for only so long. Sadly, he didn't screw up fast enough for my taste.

Months passed. In late January, I found a little piece of paper at the bottom of my mailbox. It probably had been at the bottom, unnoticed, for a couple of weeks.

The note was written on the butt-end of a stack of sticky notes — you know, that piece of paper that's left after you use the last sticky note. The message briefly wished me a happy new year and reiterated Creepy Neighbor's name and phone number.

EEEWW! Just _go away_ already, pig!

Thankfully, I never heard from Creepy Neighbor again after receiving the butt-end sticky note. I stopped seeing him coming and going from the complex after a couple more months went by. I'll never know the details, but I hope his girlfriend kicked him to the curb with steel-toed boots.

Going a Little Mad

I've hit on a guy, and despite the fact that I got rejected, it went wonderfully. No, really, I walked away perfectly happy. (Actually, I've hit on more than one guy, but the other story is boring.)

This little act of insanity on my part happened in the summer of 2008. I had discovered a talented local Irish rock band the previous year at the Indianapolis Irish Fest, and I found out that the band played often at Irish pubs around town. Sometime around the beginning of 2008, I took two of my friends, Tegan and Nellie, to see the band perform, and they loved it as much as I did. The three of us developed a habit of going out for dinner and music whenever the band played at convenient locations for us.

Yes, I became a groupie for an Irish band, and I developed _such_ a crush on the front man. At least I have my own unique twist on the groupie cliché — how many groupies do you know that can sing the lyrics of _Wild Rover_ while the band plays it? And how many front men are fiddle players?

I privately referred to the front man as the Mad Fiddler, which to my mind suited him perfectly. He was built like a lumberjack, and he had a head of unruly blonde curls. He often wandered through the pub crowds, leaping onto tables as he played his fiddle, sneaking up on people, and smiling with a wickedly playful expression. I couldn't resist the smile.

Sometime in the middle of summer, I decided to act. With premeditated intent, I prepared a small note with my name and number in advance for a night when Nellie, Tegan, and I had plans to get dinner and see the band. I displayed my note to my friends on our way to the venue and asked them to give me some extra time after the band finished playing so that I could approach the Mad Fiddler.

"You're actually going to do it?" Nellie asked with wide eyes. "No way. This I have to see."

"That's the plan," I replied. A part of my consciousness reminded me that it wanted to chicken out, but I stomped on it whenever it threatened to choke me. I wanted my moment of bravery.

"If you do this, I am going to be so impressed with you," Tegan told me.

I put the note back in my pocket, and it felt hot, burning with my awareness of it and all of my intentions behind it.

We went to the pub and made sure to get a good table where we'd be able to watch the band. During the performance, I forgot about the note sitting in my pocket and enjoyed the evening like I always did. However, when the band stopped playing sometime after eleven o'clock, my nerves snapped tight as I remembered my plan for my little note.

Tegan looked at me with curious eyes. "Are you going to?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yeah, can you still wait a bit?"

Tegan and Nellie both agreed. I have lovely friends.

I spotted a perfect moment as the Mad Fiddler packed instruments and his bandmates hauled other instruments out to a van. I slid off my chair and approached, the note held precariously between my fingertips.

"I don't want to be rude, but I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment?" I asked, because I'm about as smooth as stucco.

He looked up from his packing, saw me, saw the note in my hand, and he instantly knew the situation. He smiled and shook his head.

"No, trust me, you're not being rude," the Mad Fiddler said with a wry smile. "I've had some moments when people _have_ been rude, and that wasn't one of them."

I had a sudden insight into what other women had likely done in the past to indicate their interest to him. I suspected that they'd used fewer words and a lot more groping.

"Hey, if you can hang out for just a bit, I have to get some things done, but then we can talk," he told me.

I agreed, and I returned to my friends. Nellie and Tegan agreed to wait and hang out with me, and we slipped out of the pub to take over one of the outdoor tables. We talked and enjoyed the fresh breeze of summer night air.

Sometime after midnight, the Mad Fiddler came and joined us, flopping heavily into the fourth seat at the table. My friends and I introduced ourselves, and to my amazement and enjoyment, the four of us talked until three a.m. We talked about literature, movies, music, work — all the easy topics that young people rely on to get to know each other. I turned just a little shy, letting Nellie and Tegan take over more of the talking, but I did my fair share. Then, when the late hour of the night started to seem more like the early hour of the morning, we rose and said our goodnights. We headed for our vehicle, which stood alone in the empty parking lot that had been crowded when we arrived.

I walked to the car disappointed but satisfied. I took the Mad Fiddler's silence on the subject of my approach as a gentle "no," but I'd had such a fun time talking that it didn't bother me.

However, as we piled into Nellie's car, Nellie pointed back to the pub.

"Hey, I think he's coming over here," she said.

I stood leaning against an open car door as he approached, and the door helped me stay steady as my nerves once again sprang to life.

"About what you wanted to talk about earlier," he began, "I just wanted to say that I appreciate it, but I can't. You see, I have a girl that's really precious to me. I love her a lot, but for a lot of reasons, we just can't be together right now. That doesn't change how I feel about her, though."

I smiled, touched. "A little like Romeo and Juliet, right?" I filled in some of the blanks on my own. He lived an indie band lifestyle, traveling, playing late hours, getting approached regularly by random girls. I could see a few obvious reasons why Juliet might show some reluctance to get together, and maybe she had other reasons that I couldn't think of.

"Yeah, a little like that," he said. "Thanks, though, and I had a fun time talking tonight." He waved goodnight to all of us and walked back to his car.

The man redefined classy for me. The little bit of disappointment I'd felt just moments before evaporated, and I felt only happiness that my little action had made the fun evening possible for me and my friends. I smiled all the way home.

On the off chance that the Mad Fiddler ever reads this . . . I hope you got your Juliet!

Online Dating Makes Me Prefer Being Single

Around the age of twenty-six, I decided to give online dating a chance for the first time. I had a comfortable life, and I enjoyed being single, but the idea of dating someone and having a guy to go out with appealed to me. I didn't know of any better way to meet guys, so online dating became my default choice.

I picked an online dating service and set up my profile. I subscribed for the free trial and also bought a three-month subscription. Soon after I opened my account, I spoke with several guys through the service. I met with two.

The first guy spent a great deal of time talking about himself. He had plenty of stories to tell, and I asked questions to let him continue because it was polite and because listening felt more comfortable than telling him about myself.

He talked about his travels abroad.

"I've traveled all over the world. I lived in China for a couple years. Let me tell you about it at great length."

He talked about his theories on dating and specifically online dating.

"We're the smart ones. Never been married, no kids. There's no need to rush, and other people don't get that. You know, I met my last girlfriend through online dating."

He insisted that I needed to see a particular movie.

"You really need to see Clerks 2. I'll let you borrow my copy."

After that meeting, he sent me a message through the dating site and indicated that he was interested in meeting up again, but I declined. I declined not because I felt there was anything particularly wrong with him — I just couldn't conjure any interest.

The second guy I met left very little impression on me. I can't remember much about him except that he was new to the area. He didn't send me a follow-up message on the dating site, so I figured the lack of impression was probably mutual.

Then a swinger couple sent me a private message to proposition me. I wish I'd saved the message because then I'd be able to share it with you. Alas, I deleted the message, and I've long since closed that account, so the details are lost to the murky world of Internet dating history. Of course, I'm sure you can guess the basic gist of the message: "We think you're hot. We'd like to meet up with you. Pants not required."

I filed a complaint with the online dating service and received a cookie-cutter email reply.

Out of a perverse sense of curiosity, I checked the profile of the swingers' account. I'd received a message from a woman, but the account had been made for the man. Age: Early forties. Kids: Yes.

Brilliant.

When the time ran out for the service subscription, I opted not to renew it.

A friend once described the online dating approach as "a game of numbers." Apparently, some people approach it after prepping themselves to follow a strategy: Date as many people as possible, and one will eventually turn out to be a good match. That sounds an awful lot like shoe shopping to me. Or worse, shopping for a new pair of jeans.

I've heard of that strategy working. I've also heard of it failing. Maybe someday I'll be willing to treat finding a guy like shopping for clothing, but I guess I haven't reached that point yet.

I tried online dating again a couple years later, that time with a different, free site, but I still found the experience off-putting.

Would you like to know the greatest irony about my online dating experience? The first time I gave online dating a shot, I showed a good friend of mine, Jill, the dating site I'd decided to browse through. We had fun looking through the lists of users, reading profiles and recoiling in horror at the atrocious mangling of the English language.

Jill went home, but apparently the idea stuck with her. She did her homework and found a dating site of her own, one that offered a one-month free trial. Jill started trading messages with a couple of guys. One of the guys turned out to be the one who would give her a special kiss after they both made their "I do" promises and a justice of the peace said, "You may kiss the bride." My part in their love story may have been circumstantial, but I shamelessly claim some of the credit.

By the way, Jill, you still owe me a finder's fee.

CHRONICLE:

Random Parking Lots

By Layla Rainbolt

One of the best feelings in the world is finding out that the person you've had an enormous crush on for the past five months has an equally gigantic crush on you. It's like getting the toy you really wanted for Christmas after thinking your parents wouldn't be able to afford it, but there it is, under the tree. It's like getting your dream job after thinking your interview was mediocre and that there is probably someone else more qualified. Or, it's like going home after a bad workday and finding leftovers from your favorite restaurant in the fridge and an _I Love Lucy_ marathon on TV. (Maybe that last one is just me.)

The greatest kiss I've ever had came right after a time when I had given up on dating, at the end of my game, wondering whether I would ever find someone to love who would love me in return. You've got to know, first off, that I'm a hopeless, disastrously flawed romantic. I had obsessed over Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_ in the ninth grade, memorizing all of Juliet's lines. I've watched _Moulin Rouge!_ and _Pride and Prejudice_ about 492 times. And, yes, I got caught up in the _Twilight_ craze, going to midnight movie showings and book release parties. I even won a contest for making a _Twilight_ -inspired T-shirt.

After I'd been burned by various guys, _he_ walked into my life at the perfect time. At first, I was attracted to his dark brown eyes, facial hair, and intoxicating smile when he introduced himself to me. Then, he charmed me with his sense of humor and witty sarcasm. It didn't take long to realize that I had a huge crush on him.

We became friends first, sharing our opinions of movies, music, and life. We met weekly with a group of friends and had a chance to get to know one another before there was any talk of a romantic relationship. There was a huge connection between us, an unexplainable one that I couldn't deny, although I wasn't sure it meant anything. I had no idea whether he was taken or involved because we never talked about those things, and mostly, I didn't know whether he felt any interest in me that way. I told myself I was lucky and ecstatic to merely have him as a friend.

I've always rushed things. Sometimes I can be impatient and bossy. I demand attention if I'm not getting it. Maybe that's one of my greatest flaws. After a few dates with a guy, I wanted to know immediately whether our relationship was "going somewhere" or when we would call ourselves boyfriend and girlfriend. But I soon discovered that this wasn't the true way to find happiness and love.

Maybe, in my past relationships, I had never actually experienced love the way it's supposed to be — easy and free, rid of all doubt or secrecy. I met this man after I had felt so much heartache in my life and had seen it in the lives of my loved ones. He met me at a time when I was no longer a hopeless romantic, but just _hopeless._

We flirted, made excuses to spend time together, texted each other, and exchanged the occasional email. But neither of us mentioned the possibility of being more than friends. I invited him and our group of friends over for the 4th of July, intent on just being in his presence. I fantasized about somehow ending up alone with him, of my hand accidentally grazing his. I had a recurring daydream of giving him a tour of my apartment and showing him my spacious walk-in closet. Then, like one giant cliché, time would stand still, we would get caught up in the moment, and we would lean in to each other for a kiss.

But that was not going to happen, and I knew it. He ended up staying late with a few other guests, chatting and playing video games, and we sat next to each other. But the closest thing to my fantasy coming true was having my leg pressed against his on the crowded couch.

A few days later, we were chatting online, and he admitted that he had a huge crush on me. I felt elated, jovial, thrilled beyond belief. I told him I felt the same, and I did a happy dance around my room. And somehow, I knew. I knew that he had liked me as more than a friend all along. I hadn't been crazy in believing that we had connected, that we were very attracted to each other, that this was something _different._

That Friday night, our group of friends met again as usual. He and I exchanged secret glances, smiling about the unknown elephant in the room. Our friends went home earlier than normal, leaving us alone to talk about our relationship face-to-face. We never planned anything definite, but we knew we were going out on a date that night.

We sat in his car in the parking lot, suggesting places to eat before we decided on sushi. Suddenly, I trembled around him, hoping I didn't say something stupid or end up with seaweed in my teeth. But why did I always change myself the moment a good friend turned into something more? That was just it, I kept reminding myself: I didn't have to change for him. I could be the girl he knew and had developed feelings for.

We talked until the restaurant closed, but neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat in the restaurant's parking lot, struggling to think of other places we could go. Then, we drove around for a bit and ended up in yet another parking lot. We laughed at how indecisive we both were. We distracted each other with more talking.

We drove again and ended up at a bar even though we both hardly ever drank. We each had one beer, and because I'm not a big drinker, I immediately felt tipsy. And it showed. I gabbed on and on about unimportant things, making animated motions. He watched and smiled. He actually laughed at my jokes. He told me I had beautiful eyes. I couldn't help but wonder how the night would end. Would he speed away and never mention a possible romantic relationship between us again? Would he ask me out for a second date? Would he try to kiss me?

It was after one in the morning when we left the bar. He drove me back to my car, but still, we didn't want to end the night. We talked some more in the parking lot where we started. My mouth was dry, and I could taste the stale flavor of beer on my tongue. I worried that he would smell my terrible breath. And although I hoped he would try to kiss me, I didn't expect him to. We had taken this long to admit our feelings for each other, so kissing would probably be way too fast for him. I could wait. What were a few more dates when I had so willingly waited five months for this chance to be with him?

What if he did kiss me and it was all wrong? How disappointing would that be?

What if he was a terrible kisser? What if he jabbed his tongue down my throat or dumped an excessive amount of saliva into my mouth? What if his lips were chapped and hard? What if they were too soft? I had kissed attractive guys before only to find their kisses less than desirable. Those kisses were like beautifully wrapped packages that you open just to find a lame pair of socks inside. The socks are mediocre, you're able to use them, but they're not something you would tell your friends about.

Worst of all, what if he thought _I_ was a bad kisser?

"I guess I should get going," I said. "It's almost three."

"Yeah," he said. "I've kept you long enough."

"No, I want to stay, but you probably want to go home and sleep."

He smiled, his adorable dimples showing above his beard.

I hesitated, wondering how to leave things. Should I shake his hand? Should I hug him? Would he lean over at the precise time that I awkwardly rose from my seat, only to cause an embarrassing moment of uncertainty?

I reached for the door handle, scooped my purse from the floor, and gave him one last, longing look. I remembered that he liked my eyes.

He shrugged. "Screw it."

With a dream-like fluidity, he grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me toward him. When his lips touched mine, they weren't glazed with a layer of saliva. They weren't chapped or too soft.

They were perfect.

### Chapter 6

The Near-Miss Kiss

Once, she came very close to getting that first kiss she'd been longing for. However, "coming close" doesn't count, especially not for a first kiss.

"So in all your years, no one's ever even tried to kiss you?"

If you've been wanting to ask that question, you've come to the right chapter. Sure, someone tried. Once. Years ago. It, um, didn't work out.

If your next question is, "Well, why didn't it work out?" then I have to warn you that it's a long, complicated story. I hardly ever do anything the easy way. This story is a perfect example of how I can take something that should be simple and turn it into a drawn-out process fraught with angst. So, really, you ought to just forget about that question and move on to the next chapter. The next chapter will give you more straightforward reading enjoyment. This chapter is going to be a study in frustration. I mean, a kiss that never happened shouldn't span a five-year time period, but this one does.

. . . you're still here.

Why are you still here? Go to the next chapter. _Save yourself!_

Okay, I get it. You're reading through anyway. For the record, I consider you a hardy soul for sticking around.

The story of the Kiss That Wasn't began in 2001. At twenty years old, I went to Ireland for a fall semester abroad during my junior year of college. Seeing Ireland had been a goal of mine for a long time, so I had every intention of making the most of my three-month stay in small town just a few miles outside of Dublin.

I signed up for classes that the study abroad program, CCIS (College Consortium for International Studies), had set up for the program participants. The classes offered an education about the history and culture of Ireland: I took classes on Irish Literature, Irish Theatre, and the History of Northern Ireland. I loved the classes, and they fit neatly into my double major of Theatre and English, but they came with a significant drawback: They lacked integration with the student body of the campus. My classmates all came from America and the CCIS program. I could have chosen to take an additional elective in another class to be with local students, but I wanted to enjoy my adventure abroad rather than pile on extra homework.

Most of my fellow CCIS students seemed fine with the setup. I wasn't. They wanted to sample the local party life and brews. I wanted to meet local students and make friends.

The integration problem didn't prove to be much of a challenge. Shortly after starting the semester, a solution presented itself when my roommate told me about a flyer for the first meeting of the university's Drama Society.

I met Sean at the first meeting.

Please mentally insert some dramatic flair music here. I think the classic "dun dun DUN" effect works well.

I thought he was cute right away — he had big blue eyes and an impish smile. I had a vague impression that he might have noticed me as well, but I didn't trust my perception. Then he opened his mouth.

"Sorry, but we don't allow Americans in the club. They can't act."

I wrote him off as a loss. It's such a shame that so many attractive people happen to be jerks, right? They think they can say whatever they want and get away with it. It's even more of a shame that so many people let them.

However, as it turned out, Sean didn't fall into that category. Instead, his unfortunate first verbal impression was just an instance of attempted humor failing in spectacular fashion. He told me much later that he immediately gave himself a mental kick for the failed joke. I know what that feels like. Whenever it happens to me, I distantly hear a long whistle and then the explosion of a fighter plane crashing.

I left that first theatre meeting planning to avoid Sean. Rather than avoiding him, I ended up turning into his shadow. I can't even remember how the transition from mistrust to friendship occurred. It couldn't have taken long because I have a lot of memories of spending time with Sean. Also, I'm not one to hold a grudge, and Sean is one to quickly make up for an error in humor.

I enmeshed myself in the Drama Society, eager to spend time with the Irish thespians. I auditioned for the production of Macbeth and got the role of Malcolm. Yes, I know that's a male role. Faced with a female-heavy audition pool, the two directors had to do some gender-bending. Unfortunately for me, later in the process, the play got delayed until after my departure, so in the end I didn't get to play a prince.

Sean was involved with the play as well, but I didn't spend much time with him at rehearsals. Instead, I ended up getting to know him at other social events.

We didn't lack for events, either. I began eating with the Drama Society members at lunch, and a couple of times I joined them for breakfast at a café near the ruin of the old castle in the town. At the café, I fell in love with the gut-bomb known as a rasher sandwich. I still miss those evil things. I got to know not just Sean, but several of the other fun-loving Drama Society members. As members of a society rather than a university department, everyone had a more laid-back attitude than what I experienced at my theatre department in Indiana.

Sean also made sure to invite me to the Singer & Songwriter nights at the Student Union building. These open mic nights were a popular student hangout — they always pulled in an eager crowd as well as plenty of talents interested in doing the entertaining.

Late in October, I ran into Sean and another thespian as I left the computer lab to walk home for the evening. Our fellow thespian stayed in the lab to focus on computing, but Sean and I went and talked at the Student Union building for a couple of hours, and when the time came to call it a night, he walked me home. We talked for a few minutes longer outside my host family's home. He tilted his head back and looked at the clear night sky.

"I'm a sucker for stars," he said, and then he told me about a night beach party he'd been to when the starry sky had been perfect.

After we finished talking, he wandered back the way we'd come. Looking back at what I wrote about that night in my travel journal, I can't help but feel embarrassed. In just a couple of sentences of my sloppy handwriting, I gushed shamelessly.

If you haven't been able to figure out that I'm old-fashioned, it's time you caught on. Yes, I felt giddy over nothing more than being walked home — no kissing, no hand-holding, and no declarations of interest involved.

About interest . . . that presented a complicated issue. I became friends with Sean quickly, and I found his friendship invaluable. At the same time, I couldn't help but feel a deeper interest in him as well. However, for several reasons, that interest remained stifled, unable to rise from a simmer to a full boil. At that time in my life, I lacked any sort of confidence in my ability to interest guys. Add the fact that I had a strict time limit on my stay in Ireland. I felt uncertain about the merits of letting my interest heat up when I had only a couple of months to spend on the Emerald Isle. I also felt equally certain that no guy in his right mind would want to bother dating a girl with a severe time limit. So I decided that I should enjoy the friendship without complications, and I'd let my interest continue to simmer at a low point, relatively ignorable. If he'd suggested dating, I wouldn't have hesitated. That decision was weak of me — I know that now. I should have just asked him out.

* * *

I probably sound as though my entire semester abroad revolved around theatre and Sean. I assure you that it didn't. Those three months were a hot mess of activity. I spent some time with my host family, a single mother and her two sons, and I also spent a lot of time with my roommate, who belonged to the same study abroad program that I'd joined.

The schedule for classes in Ireland included a week-long fall break. My globe-trotting Uncle Ron came and took me on a great tour around the country. Our trip, largely unplanned, took us wherever we felt like going.

The study abroad program also included several weekend trips, so travel had been built into the semester. Furthermore, because traveling to Dublin took just a one-hour trip by bus or train, I found whatever excuse I could to go to the city and explore. As icing on the cake, one of my classmates from the University of Indianapolis back home had chosen to study abroad in Northern Ireland during the same semester, and she came down to visit me and to see the sights in Dublin. My classmate acted as my wingman for a voluntary rite of passage — we went to the Temple Bar area while we were in Dublin, and I got my eyebrow pierced.

I have more stories from the semester, thanks in large part to the fact that I kept a daily journal, but I'll leave it at that and return to the main story. Besides, you don't really want to hear about the _céilí_ (Irish dance) that I went to at the Student Union where the fiddler stripped naked, do you? Nah, didn't think so.

* * *

Late in the semester, the Drama Society hosted a showing of the 1978 animated movie version of _The Lord of the Rings._ Please note that it was the fall of 2001, and fantasy aficionados (a.k.a., geeks) around the globe eagerly anticipated the release of the movie _The Fellowship of the Ring_ in December. Sean was one such geek, er, aficionado. I was another. Sean, along with a couple of his cohorts, organized the viewing of the animated movie.

You might have noticed that I haven't yet described the near-miss kiss that I mentioned at the beginning of this chapter. You may be wondering when that not-kiss will finally rear its non-existent head.

Patience, grasshopper. Hold your horses. Chill. Stop and smell the roses. Good things come to those who wait. . . .

. . . or not, in my case.

The end of my semester abroad came rushing ever closer, and although I'd enjoyed my time to the fullest, I felt anxious to go home and spend Christmas with my family. However, as it turned out, my very last full day in Ireland coincided with the release of _The Fellowship of Ring._ Sean invited me to see the midnight showing with him. I said, "hell no" . . . and if you believe that, I have an invisible set of clothes that I'd love to sell you. Honestly, getting to see the first installment of the master movie trilogy on my final night in Ireland, and getting to see it with a guy I liked and considered a good friend, well, I couldn't think of a better grand finale to my trip.

We went early even though we had our tickets. We expected to have to deal with a line for seating and plenty of people eager to see the movie. We had no competition whatsoever, so instead of waiting in line, we wandered the mall. After we got into the theater, we discovered that our ticket stubs had been misprinted — apparently we went to see _Zoolander_ rather than _Fellowship._ The movie theater still owes me a correct ticket stub for my Ireland scrapbook.

We had the theatre mostly to ourselves. For the next three hours, we forgot about the rest of the world. At the end, even though the clock read 3 a.m., we felt wonderfully energized. We caught the last double-decker bus home and shared our thoughts and impressions about the movie, all of our reactions positive. I looked at Sean sitting next to me on the crowded bus and hoped like hell that he'd kiss me farewell.

We reached his stop. He wished me safe travels, and we promised to write. Instead of making a move on me, he moved to exit the bus.

Now, you probably want to say to me, "That was it? That was a near-miss kiss?"

Oh no, dear reader. That wasn't the near-miss kiss. That was an opportunity for a kiss, but as you'll notice, no near-miss occurred.

"Then get on with it!"

Fine, I'm getting, I'm getting.

I kept in touch with Sean for years after I left. Yes, I said years. We emailed each other irregularly, roughly every four or six months, but whenever we wrote, we sent long, detailed updates. Sometimes I didn't hear from him for an extended period, and whenever that happened I pestered him into writing back. I'm quite good at nagging, and my efforts typically yielded an overdue email, so I felt encouraged to continue.

Fast-forward five years to the summer of 2006. In those five years, I had acquired two college degrees, one good job, two cats, one townhome, and zero kisses. Not a bad showing, except for the kisses. That summer, Sean sent me an email asking about the possibility of coming to visit me the next year. He wanted to see a Broadway play that would be showing in my hometown of Fort Wayne in April of 2007. We began making plans, and although I tried not to let my hopes rise, they did. At the same time, I also looked forward to seeing my friend again for the first time in so long.

Fast-forward again, just by a few months, to the winter of 2006. Sean and I had made further plans for his upcoming visit. He would arrive in the States in April. In the meantime, an interesting and unusual thing occurred in my life: I met a Lowe's hardware employee who expressed an interest in getting to know me, and he gave me his phone number. I wanted to check out that opportunity, but I also felt torn because I didn't know what sort of potential the upcoming April visit from Sean held. Neither Sean nor I had ever expressed anything beyond friendship to each other. I didn't want to start calling the employee from Lowe's and potentially flirting and dating if my hopes for April could possibly be realized. I knew what I needed to do, and getting hit on by Handyman gave me just the spur I needed to get the job done.

I emailed Sean and told him thoughts and feelings, that I valued him as a friend but that I'd always been interested and curious about whether there could be anything more.

Sean replied, and the email he sent me contained both good news and bad news. The good news: My interest hadn't been one-sided all those years ago. I hadn't just been imagining things. The bad news: He was, in his words, "seeing someone." His response proved to be both a major win and a major disappointment. Please note that this theme of win and loss repeats itself in this chapter as well as later in the book.

Though I felt saddened, I knew I'd done the best thing I could by stating my feelings and asking about his. For one thing, I grew a spleen. And after receiving that email, because Sean already had a romantic interest, I decided to call the Lowe's guy (also known in this book as _Handyman_ ) and talk to him because I had nothing to lose.

Sean told me that we could cancel his upcoming visit if I no longer felt comfortable about it, but I didn't want to cancel. I still wanted to see him, even though it would only be as friends. So I told him that as long as the girl he was seeing had no problem with the visit, he was welcome. Besides, just "seeing someone" wasn't too terribly serious, right?

Fast-forward yet again to February 14, 2007. A florist delivered a dozen roses to me at work without any card to explain who had sent them. I'll give you three guesses as to who sent them, but I'm sure you need only one.

At the time, however, I had no idea where the roses had come from. First, I tried to pin the blame for them on my parents. That didn't work; when I mentioned it to them, they told me they had nothing to do with the bouquet. Then I tried contacting the florist, but due to the purchase method used, the company couldn't give me any information about the purchaser. It faintly occurred to me that Sean could be the masked man behind the flowers, but because I'd received them at work, I didn't think he could be the sender. I couldn't figure out how he would know my work address.

Then Sean gave himself away at the end of February by calling me at work. He explained that he had looked up my office location based on the books I worked on. When I got over my surprise, I caught on and made him confess about the roses. See, I'm slow, but I do figure things out eventually. I felt relieved to know the source and also pleased with who the source turned out to be.

After that February phone call, I suggested to Sean that we start instant messaging each other instead of just sending emails, and I justified this suggestion by saying we ought to talk in real time to get familiar with each other again before his visit in April. So we did just that, and some mild flirting sneaked into the conversations.

April came along, and at the beginning of the month, I turned twenty-six. Later in the month, Sean came to visit.

What words can I use to describe my feelings as I waited for him at the airport? I'm not sure whether the old deer-in-the-headlights cliché would be appropriate, but it probably fits. The thought of running away crossed my mind at least twice. Sean told me later that I looked terrified when he first caught sight of me.

I'm glad I didn't run away. If I'd run, I probably would have tripped and fallen on my face, and I needed to keep some of my dignity intact.

I took Sean home from the airport and set him up in my guest room. The first two days of the visit passed quickly. I had activities planned to keep us occupied, but something felt stiff and uncomfortable between us, as though we couldn't relax and talk with ease like we wanted to. The fact that we hadn't seen each other in years was only part of that feeling. The greater part of the hindrance had to do with questions and statements that hung between us, unasked and unsaid.

Finally, I couldn't take it any more, and I decided to point out the elephant wearing a pink top hat and suspenders that we kept trying to ignore. I think, over the preceding years, I must have developed at least a bit more courage to face that pachyderm.

"I've been trying to figure out how to ask this," I said, "because I really wanted to know. Are you seeing anyone right now?"

Even before he said the words, I knew the answer from his expression. He looked as though I'd just thrown a wet towel in his face.

"I am," came his slow reply.

And as we finally talked about the subject we'd both been avoiding, the elephant with the pink top hat and suspenders packed his trunk and walked out the door. From that point on, I knew where I stood, and I felt that all our conversations poured out with ease like pancake batter on a griddle. I could slide into the comfortable and uncomplicated role of friendship. I felt disappointment, but I also felt some relief. I knew how to be a good friend — familiar territory. Anything else would have left me out of my depth. I had fun over the coming days, and I believe Sean did, too.

The elephant may have departed, but I never saw the other shoe lingering over my head, waiting to drop. Actually, a whole shoe rack loomed over me.

Friday in Indianapolis came. We'd already gone to Fort Wayne to see the Broadway play that Sean had looked forward to for so long. But because we both loved theatre, I made plans for us to attend a play at the Indiana Repertory Theatre (IRT) in downtown Indianapolis that Friday. Sean had just two days left for his visit, so we dressed up nicely and warmly and went downtown for the evening.

When we exited the IRT, we had nothing but glowing praise for the play, and we discussed the detailed set, the performances of the actors, and the writing behind the play. We both felt energized by the story and performance, so we didn't want to go back to my place just yet. I suggested that we walk to the Monument Circle, so that's what we did. We went to the South Bend Chocolate Company, where young couples and families lined up to get sweet treats. We purchased cups of hot chocolate and sat outside at the frosty steel tables in the spring night. With the excitement of the play in our minds and hot cups in our hands, the cold didn't bother us.

In case you're not familiar with the center of downtown Indianapolis, please let me set the scene for you for just a moment. In the center of Indy stands the Indiana Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument, a narrow, white tower that stretches 284 feet in the air. The monument stands in the center of a great circle, and bricks pave the streets surrounding the monolith. Cars drive around the ring in a slow ballet of traffic, and occasional honks echo against the tall buildings. At night, all the city trees in the area glow with white Christmas lights year-round, and an occasional horse-drawn carriage clops along on the brick pavement. In short, the Monument Circle is a place of beauty and urban romance. It provides a picture-perfect backdrop for a first kiss.

As Sean and I sat on our cold chairs, holding our cups of cocoa to keep our hands warm, the conversation came to a natural lull. I looked over at Sean and found him staring at me, and I knew from the look in his eyes that he was debating about whether or not to kiss me despite the fact that he had a girlfriend.

I'm slow, and sometimes oblivious, but I'm not altogether stupid.

I didn't say anything. I almost said "Don't" aloud to him, but the word didn't come out. I wanted to say it, but I also wanted to let him make his decision. I waited for that shoe to drop one way or another.

He muttered something incoherent under his breath, and he leaned toward me.

And then I made the right decision, which, for me, was the only decision: I ducked my head to dodge the kiss.

He sat back in his chair and apologized. "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that." He shook his head.

The homeless elephant with the pink top hat and suspenders, which I'd evicted from my home earlier in the week, plodded slowly along the street, giving me an accusing side-eye stare as Sean and I tried to figure out what to say or do next.

"I knew what you were thinking," I said.

"Then why didn't you tell me not to?" he asked, confused.

"I had to let you decide," I replied, equally confused.

I think, in hindsight, my reply wasn't completely honest. I wanted him to make the right decision, to choose faithfulness, but I also hoped he'd try to kiss me because it would give me some, as dumb as this sounds, validation. Either way he decided, I would feel both happy and disappointed. In the brief moments that the near-miss kiss happened, I couldn't figure out my muddled feelings in such detail. Hindsight revealed all.

In any event, we survived the lack of collision. We explored the Soldiers' and Sailors' Monument briefly before going back to my car and returning to my townhome for the night.

Have you ever gotten the feeling that someone at your favorite radio station is molding the playlist into a soundtrack for your life? I have. On the drive home, Ben Harper's song "Steal My Kisses" played on the radio. Sean and I couldn't help the hysteria-laced laughs that escaped us.

I slept soundly that night, secure that I'd made the right decision to duck out of the kiss. Also, I think that selfish side of me felt mollified that one guy had at least attempted to kiss me. A set of more favorable circumstances would have been wildly preferable, of course.

The other shoe had fallen. The shoe rack itself still hovered over my unsuspecting head.

I woke up the next morning and found an apology letter waiting for me at my bedroom door. Sean had written it on note cards because he couldn't find regular sheet paper.

When Sean came downstairs for breakfast, he looked like hell warmed over. He hadn't slept the night before, he told me. I thanked him for the letter, and I knew that he truly regretted his action from the previous night.

After breakfast, I eventually asked, "So, how long have you been seeing each other?" I fully expected an answer of "a few months."

"Four years."

The shoe rack brained me.

Do I need to go into great depth describing the shock I felt upon hearing those two words? Because I never saw it coming. I had traded emails with Sean on a semi-regular basis for over five years. A girlfriend of significant tenure like that — I guess I would have expected it to come up at least in passing. For Sean's part, he told me he assumed I'd had a relationship or three that I hadn't told him about. As you already know, I hadn't had any simply because no good possibilities had come along.

After hearing "four years" echoing around my brain, I felt four times as glad that I'd refused the kiss the night before.

The remaining two days of his visit passed slowly. I felt hollowed out, not altogether with it.

As I drove Sean to the airport, we started discussing what had gone wrong during his visit. My nerves were frayed, and my temper flared enough that I felt like sharing it. I decided that I owed him a punch, so I gave him a serious sock on the shoulder.

Sean, of course, had to reply in typical guy fashion and said, "You hit like a girl."

So I hit him again, harder and in the same spot. That time he replied with, "Ow. Fine, you hit like a strong girl," which quelled my temper and made me laugh.

He flew away on a jet plane, and I went home and had a few private screaming fits.

But wait, there's more!

I heard from Sean about two days after he'd gotten back. He and his four-year girlfriend had split up. I don't know the details of the breakup, and frankly, I don't want to.

A few months after the visit and the infamous near-miss kiss, Sean and I started to recover our friendship. I still felt irritated on multiple levels, but I wanted to move past that even though I knew it would take time. Some of our email discussions that followed Sean's visit left the friendship feeling shaky and tentative, but perseverance proved fruitful.

Most importantly, as we worked things out, I realized my long-standing crush had finally faded. 'Bout time.

* * *

All that story for a kiss that never happened? Yes, indeed.

Before you move on, I want to let you know something important: Sean and I are still friends. He apologized — multiple times. I accepted, and eventually that acceptance sank in deeply enough so that I stopped getting angry. Part of the reason that it took a long time for me to let go of the bad juju was that I felt angry at myself for my willful blindness. I continually asked the right questions too late, and that left me frustrated. However, I let go of the anger because I knew he'd never meant to hurt me and deeply regretted his actions.

Good people are capable of hurting others without ever intending to. I know I've hurt others unintentionally in my life and felt awful about it. Maybe you have, too. We're human, so it's going to happen. Sean let me know how much my feelings and friendship mattered to him, and that made all the difference in the world.

We were both young. We both still had growing up to do. If I had rejected his apology and discontinued a friendship we both valued, it would have served nothing and no one. Plus, he had his side of the story, which is missing here.

From the events of the missed kiss, I learned two important lessons: The first is that a missed opportunity cannot be reclaimed. The second is that some days, having morals can be a bitch, but they're still worth having.

CHRONICLE:

Absolutely, I Promise

By David Fake

"Hey, watcha doin'?" she asked, standing over me in first period.

Being a nine-year-old kid caught with my hands in my desk, I didn't have many responses. "Well, Chewie is about to save the droids 'cause I left Luke at home, and . . ."

"C'm'ere a minute." And she grabbed my hand, forcing me to drop my toys. We hadn't really spoken up to this point in the term. She was just another classmate. Her name was Tiffany, but for the purpose of this story, I'm going to call her Scarlett. You'll see why.

None of the other kids in class paid any attention as she yanked my hand as though she were hauling me to the principal's office.

"But the droids," I protested, "aren't you going to let me save them?"

"Absolutely," she said. "I promise."

So I went along with whatever she wanted, content that, soon, I could get back to some serious goofing off.

She dragged me behind one of the rolley blackboards in the back of the room, the kind that stored chalk, erasers, and ancient Thanksgiving decorations but never actually got used. It was darker back there, and I thought there might be spiders.

We stood facing each other in our corduroys and Keds. Then she grabbed my shirt, pulled me toward her, and kissed me. At nine, this wasn't my first kiss. And the last time, a girl had pulled me behind her family's woodshed to do it. Rolley blackboards, woodsheds — girls liked to keep me a secret when I was nine.

I can't remember what the kiss was like. It's been thirty years now, and these things fade, but I remember what happened next. She slapped me. If we had been Scarlett and Rhett Butler, it would have sounded like this:

_SLAP!_ "Tell me you don't give a damn _now!_ "

She returned to her seat without a word. I did too, soon after, on very shaky legs. No one in the class asked about what we did back there behind the blackboard. Maybe they were afraid of getting slapped.

The next day, I remembered to bring Luke, but all he had to save were a bunch of janky Micronauts.

"Hey," said Scarlett, "c'm'ere a minute."

I sighed. "If I do, will you let me get back to my toys?"

"Absolutely," she said. "I promise."

I have to admit, I was thrilled. It wasn't really the kiss that did it, I think. It was being someone's secret stash. I was a magazine in the sock drawer, a candy bar in the bookcase, a comic in the text book. She slapped me again, and I lit up like a secret flashlight under the sheets after midnight.

Being a fool, I asked her if she was trying to be my girlfriend.

"No," said Scarlett. "I'm not looking for anything long term at the moment. I'm only nine."

I was shattered. "Do you think you'll ever hit me again?"

"Absolutely, I promise."

She never did.

### Chapter 7

Origins

So the carpenter's daughter said to herself, "I will go on a grand adventure and make my first kiss a Special Kiss."

But she knew she would never find her way alone. She told her friend, a magician's apprentice, about her plan. "Will you come with me on my quest to find a Special Kiss?" the girl asked her friend.

" _Yes! I know we can do it," said the magician's apprentice._

So the two packed their bags and left home to begin the search.

I decided I wanted my first kiss.

That's it. That's the origin of Kiss Chronicles. Tada! What, that's not enough? Fine. I'll write out the rest of the story properly.

I meant to get my first kiss years ago. I repeatedly told myself, "Self, by your next birthday, you're going to kiss a guy whether he likes it or not." However, I tend to resist following orders, even my own, and I failed to get myself into a lip lock. Time passed, and even though I renewed the mandate, I lacked the will to follow through with it.

The main reason I continually failed to follow through was that my options didn't appeal to me. Really, what options did I have?

* **Find a boyfriend.** This option would have been perfect, only I never found one.

* **Jump back into the online dating pool.** Ugh. I had detested online dating with a passion, and I wanted an alternative route to smooching.

* **Kiss a random guy.** I considered this possibility. I thought about it for a long time, but I couldn't go through with it. Every time the thought occurred to me, I couldn't find any enthusiasm for it. Finally, I realized the fundamental problem with this method: _Why bother?_ Such a kiss would have zero value to me. This method would be a waste. I'd prefer skipping the kiss altogether rather than kiss just anyone.

I felt (and still feel) somewhat pathetic for my lack of a first kiss. I know for certain that I'd feel even more pathetic if I threw it away like an unused light bulb. It's not the light bulb's fault that I can't find a lamp it fits into.

* **Because a random Joe Shmoe won't do, hit a male supermodel over the head and kiss him while he's out cold.** Regrettably, most countries have deemed this option illegal. I have no idea why.

My options for sucking face, in my opinion, sucked. I had looked forward to my first kiss for such a long time, but I'd had enough of waiting. I didn't want to wait any more. I wanted to actively pursue a kiss, a good one, one that would hold some meaning for me. But the means of pursuit, as previously listed, made waiting seem more appealing, as well as less likely to land me in jail on assault charges.

I needed another option.

My thirtieth birthday came and went.

I _really_ needed another option.

About a month after my birthday, in early May, a thought occurred to me: People put all sorts of items on eBay. Whole websites are devoted to listing unusual or humorous eBay auctions. Couldn't I auction off my first kiss? I laughed and discarded the idea.

The idea, however, came back like a stray cat that knew where to get a free handout. It snuggled up to me, purred, and begged to be petted.

I spent more time thinking about it, and to my surprise, the idea of auctioning off my first kiss seemed almost doable. The concept had a snag, though — money. The point, for me, was to acquire a kiss, not money. But if money had to be involved, and it would have to be if I wanted to go with the auction concept, wouldn't it make sense for the money to go to someone who needed it? I could get my kiss, and the money could go to a charity.

That's how a silly, throwaway idea turned into something that made my heart skip and jump. The idea felt right, like putting my feet into a pair of old, comfortable sneakers, like turning the radio up during a favorite song, or like taking the first slow bite of a rich chocolate cake. Still, I couldn't convince myself that this idea was The Way right away. It took a wedding to convince me.

One of my high school friends, Sara, got married at the end of May. Another of my high school friends, Beth, acted as the matron of honor.

At the reception, Sara and Beth had obligations to keep the show running, so I had time to catch up with Andy, another member of our high school friendship set. I hadn't seen him in years, and I discovered that, unbeknownst to me, he'd moved farther away to be with his girlfriend. He showed me pictures of her, as well as new pet pictures.

"We're running out of friends to marry off, Andy," I said to him as I looked at the packed reception dance floor. He and I started talking about how we were the last holdouts. We'd reached the age where we made up the single minority rather than the single majority.

"Yeah, what's the world coming to?" Andy shook his head. "Hey, I know. We should have a contest, you and me."

"Contest?" I asked.

"Sure, whichever one of us gets engaged first, wins," he declared, lifting his beer in a salute.

"That doesn't seem fair. You already have a girlfriend," I said.

But Andy, true to character, already loved the contest idea. "No, s'all good. And you know what I'm going to do when I get engaged? I'm not even going to send you a wedding invitation. I'm just going to send you a postcard that says 'I win,' and that's going to be your invite."

I couldn't take that kind of smack talk without retaliation. I took his challenge and played along, exchanging big talk and shouting "game on!" and "you're going down!" over the background of loud reception music.

The truth that I couldn't bear to tell my friend was that I didn't stand a chance in our contest. I felt like I couldn't talk with my friends about my fundamental first kiss problem because it embarrassed me, because I didn't want them to look at me differently or pity me. For years, I'd been hiding it without realizing what I'd been doing.

My friends have all been through multiple iterations of relationships. I supported them through disappointments and breakups, and I celebrated their new relationships and loves. I gladly took on the roles of maid of honor and bridesmaid. I became a very proud godmother. Yet my first kiss eluded me.

I left the reception with renewed determination to get my first kiss. If auctioning it for charity proved to be the only method that appealed to me, then by damn, I'd do it. I needed to get that first kiss.

I struggle right now to find the words to tell you what it feels like to never have kissed anyone. Mostly, I feel frozen — not in the sense of cold, but in the sense of being unable to move. What should have been small and simple has become disproportionately significant and symbolic for me. It carries the weight of years gone by and one basic, simple hope unfulfilled.

If you would, please think, just for a few minutes, about what a kiss means for your self-confidence. It is, perhaps, something that you've been able to take for granted. What sort of boost does it give you to think about some of the best kisses you've shared? How good do those memories make you feel, and what sort of confidence do they give you when interacting with a person you're attracted to? Imagine erasing them from your memory. Is your confidence still the same?

* * *

Here's another interactive portion of the book: If you have a significant other, can you do me a little favor? Really, don't freak out. When I say little favor, I mean a _little_ favor. I'm not asking you to help me paint my kitchen or take a look at my car's radiator. What I'd like you to do is stop reading for a few minutes — wait, not yet, wait a few more paragraphs — and let him or her know how much you appreciate all the kisses you've shared. In your own words or way, just say or show that the kisses are special.

Here are some ideas for how you could do that:

* Say "Thank you for all the kisses!" It can be as simple as that. If your significant other is nearby, get up, walk over to him or her, say the words, and then come back and continue reading. Enjoy the resulting confusion on your partner's face. If he or she isn't nearby, set up an ambush for the next time you'll be together.

* Compliment your significant other's kissing. When was the last time you did that? If you can't remember, it's been too long.

* Write a list of your favorite kisses that you've shared with your partner. Present the list to your partner. For extra credit, re-create at least one kiss from the list.

* Abuse a pad of sticky notes. Write kissing compliments on them, such as "Your hello kisses make me smile," and then leave the notes in various places. See how long it takes your significant other to find them all.

* * *

I knew what I wanted to do: I would auction off my first kiss, and the money would go to charity. However, I had no intention of jumping into this endeavor alone. I needed backup, a wingman. Specifically, I needed someone who would be up for an adventure and who had strengths that would complement my skills. I needed a friend I could trust who had the media savvy to go with my writing and communication abilities and who would find this sort of endeavor fun. Only one person came to mind, a friend I'd known for several years.

I need, for the purposes of this book, an alternative name to call this friend. If the fact that I have to replace the name of my wingman is giving you a sinking feeling for the sake of the project, you're a smart cookie and deserve a pat on the back.

I'll call her Amelia.

I hesitated for a few days, wondering what she'd think of the idea and whether she'd be interested. If she said she wasn't interested, or if I couldn't take the leap to invite her to join the project, I knew I would need to pack the idea away and let it go. Fortunately, I'd already told her about my first kiss issue, so I didn't have to explain that as well. Eventually, I bucked up my courage and sent her this message:

" _Hi Amelia!_

I have a crazy idea that's really starting to bug me. If I were to decide to do something bizarre, I mean really weird, somewhat socially embarrassing, slightly cool, and beneficial to charity, would you help me do it? Honestly, it's something I wouldn't be able to do without you."

She replied with enthusiasm, stating that she was always up for socially embarrassing, and she asked whether she could film us. See? I had known from the start that I could count on her media-minded brain. I explained my auction plan to her, and she loved it. She leapt on board with the concept.

We held planning meetings, and at the first meeting, we both came up with several possible names for the project. Some of the rejected names included titles such as Project: Kiss and The Smooch Seeker. We talked about the auction, charity, promotion, and timeline.

For the auction, we discussed our concerns, such as how to handle long-distance bidding. How would bidders from out of state (or even out of the country) be handled? Would they be restricted from bidding, or would we set a requirement that the winning bidder had to be willing to travel to Indianapolis? We knew that the wording and instructions for the auction page were critical. Also, we needed to think about promotion — what would be most effective, and how would we go about it?

In terms of the charity, I wanted to benefit something small, local, and universal. By universal, I mean that the charity would appeal to a wide range of people by meeting a basic human need, a need that anyone could relate to. When I think of basic human needs, I think of food, clothing, and shelter.

The thought flittered through my head that we could benefit cancer research. I snuffed out that thought faster than you can say "snickerdoodle." I wanted to keep the project neat and clean. I felt that getting involved in something as deeply personal for me as a cancer charity would be, in a word, messy. If I chose to turn the project into a benefit for cancer research, the project would involve my past as well as my present. I had lost a brother due to cancer a long time ago, but more recently than that, my father had died of prostate cancer at the beginning of 2009. My father's death still felt raw and close.

I thought, "If I do this to benefit cancer research and someone wants to know more details about Dad, I won't be able to hold it together. I don't have the strength to share that grief." So I rejected that possibility without giving it fair consideration. (My opinion would change roughly a month after the start of the project.)

So, chicken that I am, I decided to benefit a charity that provided food to people who didn't have enough to eat. Amelia and I agreed that such a charity had at least a slight connection with the kiss auction because the human mouth is good for eating as well as kissing.

I also felt, at the time, that the project didn't require me to go into such personal depth. Amelia and I discussed keeping the effort relatively brief, with a duration of only a few months from start to finish. We intended to take a couple of months for planning, getting approval and involvement from a charity, and preparing for the auction, followed by three or four weeks for the auction itself. The ending kiss, the kiss I'd been waiting for, would happen a week or two after the auction.

As well as the charity and timeline, Amelia and I also had restrictions to think about. We decided that the auction description had to clearly state that the winner would be required to be present in Indianapolis to claim the kiss. The kiss would occur in a public place, predetermined and listed in the auction.

"We need to put an age minimum on this," I mentioned to Amelia. "I don't want to end up kissing a boy under the age of eighteen. No jail bait allowed."

"Good point," she agreed. "But you know, what if it's the other way? What if it's an older guy who gets the top bid? You could end up kissing a grandpa."

I understood what she meant. I'd prefer to kiss a guy who fell within a reasonable age range. However, putting an upper age limit on the auction reduced the risk inherent in the auction, and I believed that part of what would make the auction interesting to an audience was the risk. After giving it some thought, I decided not to include an upper-age-limit restriction.

"And what if it's a married guy?" Amelia asked.

That one I couldn't answer so easily. "If it's a married guy, he's an idiot," I said. "We're adding a line that states that I am not liable for any married man getting his ass kicked by his wife for bidding. Would it even be possible to restrict it, limit it to singles only?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "but we can look into eBay policies and figure it out. We might not be able to tell for sure if he's married, though. All he'd have to do is take off his ring and lie."

We discussed that snag further, but we tabled it with the intention of figuring it out later.

"What if a woman wins the auction?" Amelia asked.

Woops. That hadn't occurred to me. I thought about it for a moment, but then I shrugged. "Then I get my first kiss from a woman."

I believed that the likelihood of a much-older man winning the auction was greater than a woman winning, and if getting a kiss from somebody's grandpa didn't scare me, neither did the idea of kissing a woman. If by some chance a woman did win, I would have to figure out how to get another first kiss from a man after that, but I could deal with that problem if it came up.

I aimed to get a kiss from the best bidder, the person who would most generously open his or her wallet for charity, rather than to get a kiss from a specific type of person. Allowing myself to limit too many possibilities would, I felt, hobble the project and keep it from growing.

You could, perhaps, glean the impression that I no longer cared what my first kiss would be like. In a sense you'd be right, but not entirely. I both did and didn't care about the quality of the kiss I would receive from the auction. I wanted a good kiss — that's a given. But consider this: I'd thought about my first kiss for so long that the chances of the reality living up to the wish had shrunk to diminutive odds. Only the most perfect of kisses could make up for the excessive waiting I'd done. So, given those odds, I decided that, even more than wanting a good kiss, I wanted my first kiss to have _meaning._ I knew without a shred of doubt that I'd be satisfied with my first kiss as the successful end of an auction for charity.

Ideally, my first kiss would be both a top-notch kiss and meaningful.

"And what," some of my friends have asked, "is your idea of a perfect first kiss? Do you want it with tongue or without? Should it be firm or soft? How long would it be? What would it be like?"

First of all, how should I know whether or not I want tongue? Maybe it'd be great, but I'm not sure, so caution drives me to say, "No, save the advanced stuff for Kissing 102."

As for the rest of the details of the once-upon-a-wish kiss that I'd wanted for years . . . do you really want to hear my first-kiss fantasy? Very well. I warn you that what's about to follow is blatant kiss pornography.

He'd be smiling. The quirks of the corners of his lips would radiate satisfaction and happiness, like the smile that comes at the end of deep laughter. His smile would be all for me, and I'd know that because he'd be looking at me and unable to look away. The moment would settle around us like a silk curtain. He'd then lift one hand to my cheek . . . only one, though, because he'd understand my nervousness, and he wouldn't want me to feel caged by two hands. My nervousness would have nothing to do with him and everything to do with my fear of making an awkward mistake.

With the one hand warm on my cheek, he'd graze his thumb over my skin, once, twice, perhaps catching just the corner of my mouth. He'd lean in, eyes still on mine, and with only a small bit of distance between us, he'd say something quiet. It wouldn't be a request for permission, because he'd already know he has it. Instead, he'd whisper something encouraging, something sweet. Then he'd lean in close, and just for a moment we'd breathe the same air before he touched his lips to mine.

It would be soft and warm. It would be slow. Although he'd begun it, he'd let me take over after the first moment, and I'd dust my lips against his to learn the sensation of it. He'd press a little more firmly, and I'd follow his lead. When I was ready, I'd end the kiss as confidently as he began it. When we'd pull away from each other, we'd both be smiling.

That'd be nice. And by "nice" I really mean "a moment of bliss-inducing perfection." I knew I couldn't get that from a kiss auction, but I didn't have any expectations for getting it without the auction, either.

* * *

One of the sillier episodes of the project happened early on. During one of our meetings, Amelia sent a tweet to ask her Twitter followers what they thought of the idea of auctioning off a first kiss for charity. Some responded that it sounded interesting and fun. But a dissenter spoke up with an unexpected question.

"Wouldn't that be prostitution?" a follower asked.

Wow, really?

"I don't think he knows how sex works," I told Amelia, and we laughed.

I ought to have seen it coming. The Internet thrives on controversy, and even in a situation where little to no controversy exists, netizens know how to create it. So Amelia tweeted back the dictionary definition of prostitution, and no, it did not apply.

I'm not the first person to have the idea of kissing for charity. The kissing booth has been around since long before I was born. The Kiss Chronicles project was, in essence, a more complicated version of a kissing booth. Additionally, celebrities have held high-profile auctions for kisses in the past. Sharon Stone set the bar extremely high by auctioning a single kiss for a charity benefit, and it sold to the tune of $50,000.

In case any doubt lingers in your mind about whether the Kiss Chronicles project could be considered even slightly immoral, here's my trump card: I obtained parental sanction for the project. My mother gave the project approval without a hint of concern for misconduct on my part. If she'd thought my good name was at stake, I'd have heard about it.

Later on, when a couple of other people raised the prostitution question again, I knew to expect it and how to reply.

* * *

Regarding project promotion, Amelia and I had no shortage of ideas.

We discussed doing a series of videos, both humorous and informative, as a means of spreading news about the auction and developing interest. Amelia had skills with video editing, and we both came up with concepts for video content, bouncing the ideas back and forth to build them into entertaining possibilities. For our favorite idea, we planned to film a "Lost in Duct Tape Translation" series. I'd have my mouth duct-taped shut — to protect the first kiss for the auction, of course — and Amelia would translate my duct-tape mumbles. We also discussed doing a short mock documentary, as well as one or two serious videos for delivering facts, such as announcing the start date of the auction and providing updates on the auction progress.

Beyond video, we brainstormed additional promotion plans. We knew that we'd need a Facebook page dedicated to the project, which proved easy to set up. We talked about buying inexpensive Facebook ads to attract attention.

As we talked social media, I asked Amelia, "Do you think I ought to make a Twitter account?" I knew little about Twitter except for what she'd shown me.

She shook her head. "I don't think you really need it."

I sighed in relief. I'd resisted the temptation to try Twitter for years, and I didn't want to succumb. My avoidance would last only a couple more months following that question, however.

We discussed options for offline promotion. We talked about posting flyers locally, and we considered where to put them. Our flyer talk brought a timing issue to our attention. College campuses are great centers for viral Internet content to catch on and spread. We considered pushing the auction back to September or October so that it would happen after the start of the school year. The timing would put more burden on Amelia — she was going into her final year of college — but the possible benefits tempted us.

We thought of one more key promotional tool. I needed to make Kiss Chronicles a blog as well as a project. The blog would be my medium for writing my thoughts on the project progress, telling my backstory, and connecting with people directly. For the blog, I also wanted to solicit and share kiss stories from people, which would add a fun factor and allow the audience to feel personally connected with the project.

I remember the eager, nervous anticipation jittering up and down my spine the night we set up the blog. Amelia designed the logo, and I gave her input on it as I wrestled with setting up a blogging account at WordPress.com. I decided to truly commit by buying a domain name, which felt very official indeed. I had to get myself under control, though. I kept finding excuses to walk away from the computer in the middle of the process: "Oh, I need to put the snack plates away" and "I need my credit card for this part, be right back" and "Excuse me, I need a moment to freak out."

Finally, I clicked the button to buy the domain. We celebrated the creation of the blog with some Baileys Irish Cream, which helped soothe my savaged nerves.

As I wrap up this chapter, I can't help but wince at my naïveté. I had a great plan worthy of devotion and effort, but even at that early stage, I'd already made key mistakes. I didn't recognize those mistakes until much later, though.

CHRONICLE:

The Princess and the Pauper

By Brad Severance

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent. The author's name is real because he is most certainly guilty . . . and kind of a jerk, too.)

I fell head over heels in love during my freshman year of high school. The object of my heart's desire was a girl named Angie. She was a soft-skinned, winged angel, crowned with dark tresses that shimmered in the florescent light as she glided in and out of the crowded classrooms.

Angie filled all my waking thoughts and restless dreams. She consumed me. It was impossible to concentrate on anything else.

I was a smart kid, especially with words and language. My parents enrolled me in a humanities magnet (a magnet school is a public school that offers a specialized curriculum), and as a result, I didn't attend the high school in my neighborhood. They bussed me into a school on another side of town, which was populated almost entirely with "rich kids." I didn't understand this at the time, but many of them weren't really rich, just middle-class. I was poor, so I didn't know the difference. My dad used to say that we lived in a working-class neighborhood and that we were decent, working-class folk. But the rich kids knew I was poor. They could tell by the clothes I wore, the things I said, and my underprivileged countenance.

Angie was a rich girl. I was a poor boy. The gulf between us was wider than the Red Sea.

I learned that, one period before my class, Angie occupied the same desk that I occupied. I wrote her notes on the desk, and she responded in kind. Later, we wrote notes on paper (second base!). I don't remember what the notes were about or how it all got started. I _do_ remember thinking our correspondence indicated my romantic feelings toward her were reciprocated.

Nothing was further from the truth.

Actually, it turned out she was merely toying with me. Or maybe she was just being nice. Maybe she felt sorry for me. God only knows. I learned through the grapevine that she had no interest in me whatsoever. My heart broke into a million pieces. And yet, I knew it was inevitable. Destiny had not built a bridge between her world and mine.

Until I met her brother Chris.

Our meeting wasn't happenstance. When I learned that Angie had a brother, I worked tirelessly to befriend him. I had no definite plan, just the vague notion that our friendship could open doors to her that were otherwise closed to me.

Chris turned out to be a cool guy. He was a rich kid but cared little about the punitive damage his reputation incurred for associating with me. He was honest, loyal, trusting, and imbued with a wild, earthy passion for life. He was my contrast, as I was introverted, cerebral, and lived entirely in my imagination. We each admired in the other qualities we did not ourselves possess.

I never confessed to Chris my ulterior motive for making his acquaintance. After a time, it no longer mattered. Our friendship was real, and I all but forgot about Angie. That was my freshman year. Angie faded out of my dreams, and she became just another pretty girl at school who I knew would never be the least bit interested in me.

However, my friendship with Chris remained steadfast. We spent many days together cutting school, writing bad poetry, smoking pot, and drinking beer.

One weekend in my junior year, Chris' parents left town, and Chris threw a party. As the evening wore on, his house steadily filled to capacity with riotous, drunken high school kids, of which I was one. Angie was also there, although I don't remember seeing her until the culminating event of this story.

I was blackout drunk. I stumbled upstairs into Chris' parents' bedroom and into the attached bathroom. I fell to my knees and vomited all over the toilet, the wall adjacent to the toilet, and the surrounding ceramic tile floor. I stumbled out of the bathroom and saw Angie soundly passed out on the bed, her tousled hair flared across the pillow upon which her peaceful head lay.

I don't remember deciding to kiss her. I don't remember sitting next to her, leaning over her resting body, and bending down to kiss her. But I _do_ remember kissing her. _And_ she responded! I think we French kissed a little. However, nothing at all should be read into this. She must've been on autopilot, because it's impossible that kissing a guy who just vomited all over her parents' bathroom was pleasant. I also had the presence of mind to consider how indecorous it was of me to kiss an innocent girl who would vehemently protest such intimacy had she been conscious. Had someone caught me, I would have been soundly, and deservedly, beaten. Perhaps out of fear for my own skin, I desisted almost immediately after I had begun.

The remainder of the evening is enshrouded in a thick fog of insobriety. I likely stumbled back downstairs and made a fool of myself.

* * *

After those tumultuous, adolescent years, I never saw Angie again. That was almost thirty years ago. Just recently I reunited with my first high school crush through the marvel of Facebook. She's married now, a mother to a lovely little girl, and lives in Florida. She turned out all right, as I myself have.

Unfortunately, our political views couldn't be more divergent. Her obnoxious, unending stream of posts bemoaning "the socialist takeover of Christian America" by bleeding heart liberals (as I am often characterized) incensed my working-class sensibilities. She became my first and, as yet, only Facebook casualty. Admittedly, the pauper in me took some satisfaction in defriending her.

### Chapter 8

A Great Start

The carpenter's daughter and the magician's apprentice traveled the land far and wide in search of a Special Kiss. No one that they asked knew of where to find it, but everyone wished them luck. At last, they met a traveling merchant.

" _What a fantastic goal!" said the merchant. "You should be very excited, for you will accomplish something great. I would like to help you find a Special Kiss, but my caravan leaves soon, and I must go. I will ask my fellow merchants along my way, and when I return here, I will let you know what I've found."_

The girl and her friend thanked the merchant and awaited his return.

The near-simultaneous launches of the Kiss Chronicles blog and Facebook page began the project with promising panache. Amelia and I asked friends, family, and strangers to "like" the Facebook page. I combed over my blog posts with tenacity to clean up every paragraph and sentence before I hit the Publish button.

We gained followers for the Facebook page rapidly for the first two weeks. At the end of the first week, we had 100 Likes. Even after Amelia felt she had gotten all the Likes she could, I kept seeking out just a few more friends who could like it, a few more friends who would share the page with their friends and spread it further. After a while, though, I couldn't squeeze any more Likes from my contacts, and I had to let the matter rest or risk becoming that annoying Facebook friend who spams the News Feed. At the end of that push, the page had about 130 Likes.

Achieving over a hundred followers within two weeks gave me some heady encouragement. I knew that we'd need more followers, but further progress on Facebook, I decided, could come later. I refocused on the two areas where I could make immediate progress, the blog and charity.

Writing the blog felt comfortable to me, like coming home or wrapping up in a warm blanket. I devoted time to writing and hunting content, and I intended to make it engaging so that visitors wouldn't be able to resist coming back for more.

"The blog is turning out to be a lot of fun," I said to Amelia. "I have the next several post ideas already lined up. I think I can start posting every other day."

"That's great! I'm glad you're having fun," she said. "However, you should probably slow down on the posting. Once a week would be good. Twice maybe, if you need to."

"Why's that?" I asked. "From everything I understand about blogs, they benefit from a frequent posting schedule."

"I think this situation's a little different," she said. "We don't want to saturate the audience before the auction."

I thought about it. "I see what you're saying. I'll slow down a bit, but I need to post a minimum of twice a week. If I want to get into blogging communities, my posts have to be more regular. I'll keep the content varied so it doesn't get boring."

"That should be fine," she said.

With that sorted out, I continued at a good pace, posting a minimum of twice a week.

One of the fun portions of the blog would be including kiss stories submitted by readers. However, first I needed to lure in some readers and convince them to send me their stories.

Shortly after launching the blog, I woke up one morning to find the first kiss story submission. I couldn't believe my eyes. I had to check and double-check my email inbox to make sure it truly was a submission. Not only did my inbox continue to display a story from a reader, but the story was _great,_ with a fun, quirky ending. What amazed me the most, though, was that I didn't know the submitter. Who was this person, and how had she discovered Kiss Chronicles? Upon checking with Amelia, I learned that she didn't know the submitter either. The first submission was, in my estimation, a pure and perfect success.

My hopes bubbled higher. If this submission could happen, everything really could come together.

Apart from the blog, I also needed to work on one teensy problem that the whole project hinged upon: I needed to find a charity that would be willing to take on the outlandish proposition behind Kiss Chronicles. Considering the nature of the project, I had concerns about whether I could convince anyone at an upstanding charity to take me seriously.

Despite all the planning that Amelia and I did, I kept my monetary goals modest. I figured, at best, I could expect the final auction bid to end up somewhere around the $400 range. On a more optimistic day, I told Amelia about my wish to break $1,000, and she assured me we could reach it.

I selected my top charity pick, a food-service charity, and went after it. I did my homework, looking into its background and mission. As I searched the charity's website, I looked through the list of contacts to see whether I could find someone with an appropriate job title. Lo and behold, I found a name next to the title Special Events. I believed Kiss Chronicles had something special going for it, so I figured the Special Events person would be the right one to contact.

I'm going to call the charity Dinner Bell, and I'll call the contact Chef. That name seems fun and friendly, and it reminds me of the movie _Ratatouille._ If it would suit your tastes better, you can think of Chef from _South Park_ or the Swedish Chef from _The Muppets._

I sent Chef an email, and I copied Amelia on the email so she could see as well. I explained the project to Chef and invited her to look at the blog and Facebook page. Happily, I did not get an immediate reply of "Be gone, crazy lady! Back to the asylum with you!" I enjoy small victories when I can get them.

Roughly a week after emailing Chef, I followed up with a phone call.

"Hi! This is Virginia Sanders from Kiss Chronicles," I said. "I emailed you last week about the possibility of benefitting Dinner Bell, and I wanted to follow up with you on that."

"Wow, hi there," Chef said. "That's kind of amazing. You're not going to believe it, but I was just thinking about you and your project. I was planning to give you a call in just a bit."

She and I laughed for a minute in the awkward way of people who have never spoken before, but the situation made a great starting point.

"I have to tell you, I really like your idea," Chef said. "It's interesting, fun, and different. And you already have the little blog set up, and the Facebook page."

I could hear the enthusiasm in her voice, and the fact that she had already checked out the blog and the Facebook page helped calm my nervous heart.

"Thank you so much," I said. "I really think it has a lot of potential, and I'm sincerely hoping that I'll get to work with you."

We talked in more depth, and I described how I'd come up with the idea as well as the multiple ideas for promotion that Amelia and I had discussed.

"I think it'd be a great opportunity," she said. "The first step is that I need to take this idea and present it to the events board, and then I can talk to you more after that. The board meeting isn't until next week. Is that okay?"

"Yes, that's just fine," I said. "Thank you so much for your time. I look forward to hearing from you next week."

As I hung up the phone, excitement made my heart flutter. The conversation had gone much better and smoother than I could have hoped, and I felt confident that, with Chef's enthusiasm, the board would latch on to the project and give us a green light.

Meanwhile, even as I took steps toward getting charity involvement, Amelia had another event in progress that would drastically affect the future of the project. She had an interview with a local advertising company for an internship, and during the interview, her potential employers asked about her interests and occupations. Amelia told her two interviewers about various projects she participated in or organized at college, as well as her sporting achievements. She also told them about her involvement and work on Kiss Chronicles. The interviewers loved it, and they brainstormed ideas for the project with her as a way to learn more about her creative style. Amelia told me they spent twenty minutes discussing it with her, and the interviewers had explained the reason behind their interest in the project.

"They told me that their company has been considering taking on some sort of unique charitable project as an effort for social responsibility," Amelia told me over the phone as she described how the interview had gone. "They seemed to think that Kiss Chronicles was exactly what they'd been looking for. They love wild, creative stuff like that, and we talked about _so_ many things we could do to make it bigger."

"That's great," I said. "But, you know, that might just have been for the sake of the interview. They wanted to test you out to see how creative you could get. We shouldn't be too disappointed if their interest proves to be temporary."

"You're right, but I really think we're going to hear from them. It was so exciting! We talked about crazy things like getting celebrity involvement and how awesome it would be to do something like fly you out to the Empire State Building for your first kiss. It would be like a _Sleepless in Seattle_ thing. Don't give up on them just yet, because we could raise a lot more money for the charity if they got involved."

Celebrities? Empire State Building? It sounded far-fetched to me. The opportunity sounded thrilling, but I didn't expect to hear from the company.

The interest of the interviewers didn't wane, however. They followed up with Amelia by email. They declared interest in getting involved in the project if we'd be willing to team up with them.

I couldn't quite believe Amelia when she told me about the email, so I had her forward it to me. I still couldn't believe it when I saw the email. Despite seeing the words written by one of Amelia's interviewers, "And I'm really, really serious about wanting to help with your friend Virginia's kiss charity auction," I still didn't feel I could trust this possibility. It seemed too good to be true, so I didn't let my hopes rise too high. I needed to get in touch with the agency directly to find out more.

Even before I could make contact with the ad agency, Amelia hit full throttle. She came out of that interview inspired and eager to work. She started with a small but targeted Facebook campaign for the project. She took our Facebook page and virtually stapled it up on the Facebook Walls of local news channels and a few other media channels, turning the Kiss Chronicles page into a web-based flyer.

One of the news channels nibbled on the bait. I received a brief email of inquiry from a web content manager at the local news channel. She wanted to know whether I was from central Indiana. If I was, she stated that she might be interested in doing a story on my project.

"It worked!" I yelled over the phone to Amelia.

"What worked?" she asked.

"The posting, on Facebook. It worked!" I told her about the email from the web content manager.

"Really? Are you kidding me? That's fantastic!"

"What do I do?"

"Email her back!"

So I did. I wasn't quite ready to answer questions, but with the way things were coming together, I estimated that I could be ready in about a week. I sent a short reply explaining that I was from central Indiana and that I hoped to have the charity for the project confirmed in the near future.

As you can imagine, my mind flowed with nothing but thoughts of the project during that time period. I woke up every morning thinking about what I could accomplish that day, and I drifted to sleep while contemplating plans and visions of success. The project had only just started, but everything seemed to be going in the right direction.

For my next move, I contacted the ad agency. Hmm, the ad agency needs a name, doesn't it? I'll call it Babel & Sons Advertising, but that's a little long, so I'll just say BS Ads.

Amelia gave me the email contact for BS Ads, and I set about writing my introduction to the contact — I'll call him Mr. Toobusy. I kept the email as brief as I could, but I made sure to inform him clearly about the status of the project to date. I let him know about the plan for the auction, my contact with Chef at Dinner Bell, and the inquiry we had received from the local news channel. He replied that he knew of Dinner Bell and thought it was a great charity.

On the same day, I sent another follow-up email to Chef to let her know about the potential involvement of BS Ads. A few hours later, I received a reply from Chef. She had presented the project to a meeting of the Dinner Bell's events board the day before.

I couldn't have asked for a gentler rejection: ". . . and while everyone loved the idea, it was decided it was not the best fit" for the charity.

It came as both a surprise and a disappointment. Chef's prior appreciation for Kiss Chronicles had made me complacent, as though I'd received a Monopoly Chance card reading "Advance to Go." It didn't work out that way, but I didn't let it get me down for more than a few hours. Rather, I knew I could learn a lesson from it — I needed to put more serious thought into picking not just _any_ charity, but the _right_ charity, one that would make an undeniably good fit for both me and Kiss Chronicles.

Even as I came to that realization, I couldn't let myself get distracted for long because I had another egg in the frying pan. I received an exciting email reply from Mr. Toobusy the same day. I'm going to reenact his message by putting the email in my own words. Watch me paraphrase like a pro:

" _I have to say, your project interests me greatly, and I'd like to get involved. Perhaps Amelia shared some of our conversation with you already. If so, you know we talked about how much, much bigger this could be than just a local event._

I'm going to California this week, and I have plans to meet people there who could raise the bar on this. One possibility, which I already discussed with Amelia, was that we could involve celebrities. Rather than using the auction setup, we could use an American Idol–style voting system. Think of it: We could have three celebs involved, and they'd ask their fans to vote by making donations with a texting system. The celebs could even get extra mileage with press coverage. The charity would get all the money, and you'd get your first kiss from whichever celeb gets the most votes. You could raise QUITE a bit more money thanks to the increased press and audience interest levels.

Another idea: Depending on interest, this could be turned into a TV show. I'm imagining maybe a Kiss Chronicles documentary or possibly a series about the first kiss experience of several people.

I'd really like to get involved because you have a fun idea with a solid purpose. Is it okay with you if I discuss these opportunities at the higher level? I'll have a chance to talk about this with a friend who's a manager/producer, but I won't pitch anything you don't want to consider. This wouldn't be a commitment right now, either, just an exploration of opportunities that could come up.

Depending on how things go and what opportunities come up, I might ask you to consider holding off with the local media coverage. Publicity can be difficult to control. When a story starts, it's hard to say where it'll go."

Rereading the email now, after everything that followed, is kind of agonizing. It's a shame I didn't know at the time that I should have printed it out just for the sake of burning it.

Of course I didn't burn it or even delete it. I believed that if BS Ads picked up Kiss Chronicles, it would result in the best possible outcome that I never imagined when I first came up with the auction idea. I saw two enormous benefits coming out of teaming up with BS Ads: the money and the kiss.

The charitable proceeds would vastly increase. I could take the modest dollar signs that had been dancing in my head and turn them into a number of real significance, a number that could make a powerful impact for a charity. Reaching a five-digit number seemed like a real possibility, and just the idea of it made me leap up from my chair and start pacing with excited energy.

The kiss outcome, which I still had a vested interest in, would get narrowed down to just a few possible candidates rather than being open to any Tom, Dick, or Harry (or even any Tam, Deb, or Sherry) who wanted to bid. Ultimately, the choice of who I'd end up kissing still wouldn't be up to me, but getting my first kiss from a celebrity wouldn't be a horrible thing. I figured the celebrities involved wouldn't be A-list figures — more likely C-list or D-list types, but it'd still be nice to have the possible kissers narrowed down. This new voting method eliminated all the uncertainty and risks of using my original auction idea, such as a married man winning the auction. However, even as the voting idea threw risks out the window, it became more interesting than a plain auction because the audience would get to make the final decision.

Before I'd ever even had a meeting with anyone at the ad agency, the people there took my idea, which I already loved, and improved it, turning it into something that I _really_ loved.

The TV properties that Mr. Toobusy mentioned in the email didn't interest me much aside from the fact that they could provide added value to BS Ads, cementing the agency's involvement. If Mr. Toobusy wanted to chase those options while working on Kiss Chronicles, if they helped make BS Ads want to pick up my project and run with it, I had no problem with that, but my concern remained with completing Kiss Chronicles successfully. I also didn't expect too much out of his talking with any hot shots out in California. Hollywood folks can sometimes be focused only on the dollars, or so I hear, and the Kiss Chronicles concept would appeal more to positive thinkers and daydreamers. Would it be cool if the project spawned a TV show? Oh, definitely. Should I concern myself with that while I still had the project to conduct? Oh, hell no.

Besides, I figured I'd be largely unconnected with any TV concepts that developed. If they did take off, I'd be the mere source of the concept rather than a player in the process of such things.

Now, before I tell you this next part, let me inform you that I know very well that I made a numbskull move. At the end of his letter, Mr. Toobusy advised me to put off making a connection with the web content manager from the local TV channel. I took Mr. Toobusy's advice. I explained to the web content manager that I needed to get some details arranged for the project, get my ducks in a row so to speak, but that I could contact her sometime soon.

As sometimes happens in life, "soon" turned out to be never.

Maybe the project could have been successful if I'd done that one thing differently. Maybe things still would have turned out the same way. Maybe everything would have been worse. If I let myself stop and think about what could have been for very long, I'd end up mentally chasing my tail like a hyper retriever puppy. I'll never know, so I have to let it go.

All in all, by the end of June, I felt as though the project had gotten off to a phenomenal start. The blog held incredible potential and fun for me, my partner Amelia and I shared our zeal and worked hard together for the project's sake, and we had the potential to take the project to a high level with the help of BS Ads. Every time we explained the project to a new person, we invariably received a keen interest.

Only one setback, at that time, weighed on my mind: the first charity hadn't worked out. Not a big deal, right? The charity only acted as the _lynchpin for the whole project._ Pshaw. The words that Chef had written to me, "not the best fit," stuck with me. But what would make a charity a good fit for Kiss Chronicles? In my mind, the answer rang through loud and clear:

I couldn't involve just any charity. I had to make the charity _personal._

I knew with deep certainty that I needed to reconsider the foundation stone of the project that I'd rejected so easily in the early stages. I had to reconsider the possibility of choosing a cancer-related charity.

The importance of that decision, however, deserves a whole chapter of its own.

CHRONICLE:

First Kiss

By Jim Meeks-Johnson

Isabel was part of the tenth grade literati, and I was part of the nerd squad. She was in drama club, and I was in AV club. So when I asked her whether she wanted to go see a movie with me and she said yes without even asking what movie, I was pretty much flummoxed. Her willingness to go out with me ended up being a minor problem because I had hoped to see Sean Connery in _You Only Live Twice,_ but she considered him a sexist pig. I feared she would opt for Shakespeare — he always put me to sleep. But fortunately the _Casino Royale_ spoof of James Bond was playing, and we both liked that idea, albeit for different reasons.

I met her at her house, and we walked the six blocks to the movie theater. It was spring, and the trees were blooming. It was a small Midwestern town, and we felt safe.

We sat in the back of the theater, where we shared a popcorn, risking a few brushes of our fingers. But we drew the line at sharing a soda and risking anything more. Besides, she drank Doctor Pepper.

The movie ended, but we didn't get up right away, not yet ready for our date to end. For the first time ever, I watched the credits, commenting on the many odd names of the cast. Eventually, though, even the credits ended, and we had to leave.

I walked her home slowly, enjoying the fresh breeze of the spring night. The streetlights twinkled on her glasses, giving her a romantic, starry-eyed look. Our hands bumped together and somehow held. It was an amazing feeling to have a girl hold my hand.

Our conversation slackened. I thought about what would happen when we reached her porch. I wanted to kiss her, but so many things could go wrong. Maybe her father would be sitting in the porch swing, or her mother watching out the living room window. Isabel had been chatty earlier in the evening but grew quieter. I became afraid she was thinking how glad she would be to get home and be done with me.

As we turned up the sidewalk to her front steps, I felt a little extra pressure from her hand, slowing us down. No, she didn't seem to be in a hurry.

"Thanks for the movie," she said. "I really enjoyed the evening."

"Cool. Maybe we can do it again some time."

She paused in front of the door and turned to face me, "I'd like that very much . . . well, I guess we're here."

My heart raced. My hands tingled. My head pounded. Now or never. I leaned forward to kiss her upturned face.

Our glasses clicked. We stopped in confusion. I'd never thought of this. How do you kiss with glasses? Quickly I turned my head and tried again.

Another click. Still no kiss.

It was hopeless. People with glasses can't kiss. I was doomed to a life of handholding.

"Let's try it this way," Isabel said, reaching up and taking off her glasses. This time there was no click of glasses meeting — only the sweet softness of lips coming together.

### Chapter 9

Daddy's Girl

While the girl and her friend awaited the return of the merchant, they continued their search for the Special Kiss, though they never strayed far from the town where the merchant had agreed to meet with them.

Sometimes, late at night and far from home, the girl missed her family. Whenever that happened, she got up early the next morning and worked even harder to complete her quest.

I would never call myself a daddy's girl. Others have called me that, though.

I have no personal association with the term _daddy._ It's not one I ever used. I can't remember using _mommy,_ either. When I was born, the youngest of my brothers was already ten years old. For my language-acquisition purposes, my brothers provided the examples for me to follow. They called our parents Mom and Dad, so that was how I learned to refer to the tall people who were in charge of little me.

What a surprise it was to me later when I found out they had first names, Liz and Mark.

The more important reason I can't think of myself as a daddy's girl is because I can't accept the negative stereotypes that go with the turn of phrase. When I think of a daddy's girl, I think of a pretty girl who wears clothes and hairstyles that are in the current fashion magazines, who puts on too much makeup, and who expects her daddy to smile and nod at her every demand. The daddy in question forks over money to her without question and calls her "precious" or other cutesy names. Basically, I think of Veruca Salt.

You can't see it, but I'm gagging right now.

That wasn't my dad, and that's definitely not me. I was never an especially girly girl in his eyes. As a little girl, I got scolded whenever I trampled on the vegetable sprouts in his backyard garden. He took me canoeing and blueberry picking. He taught me about common and not-so-common backyard birds — he was the kind of man who noticed when a rufous-sided towhee showed up to rummage in the foliage. He patiently taught me how to play ping-pong, although I never could accomplish the wicked spins that he put on the ball.

Dad didn't let me win at ping-pong, and he didn't hand over everything I wanted. I could never convince him to let me have a cat. I've known that I was a cat person since I was only four or five, and I longed for a kitten the way some kids longed for a pony. After years of pleading with my father, I abandoned my kitten quest. To fill the feline void in my life, I asked for alternative pets. Rabbits? Sure. Hamsters? All right. Guinea pigs and lizards? No problem — though I should have stuck with rabbits and hamsters. But _no cat._ Dad grew up as an Iowa farm boy. As far as he was concerned, cats were useful as mousers or for target practice, but otherwise they were a nuisance.

A cat wasn't the only thing I couldn't wheedle out of my father. When it came to money, Dad didn't believe in making any purchases that he categorized as frivolous. As a kid, I counted on Mom for spending money. Dad also didn't call me pet names or ladle out praise and compliments. The man simply didn't talk a whole lot. When he did, he spoke concisely, often bluntly. On the rare occasions when he did give praise, it meant something and carried a deeper weight and intent. If he bothered to say it, he said it only because he felt it important enough to share. Everything else, he kept to himself.

I didn't always understand that — his reserved demeanor used to bother me, especially when I reached my teenage years. He never reacted to things the way I thought he should, and that was only _if_ he reacted at all. He was always hard at work on something — his garden, household repairs, woodwork, and so on. As I saw it, doing something just for fun didn't enter his repertoire of activities. To my teenage eyes, my dad didn't appear to have a playful bone in his body. In my youthful opinion, just about everything in life was about having fun. He didn't make sense to me. He was an engineer, and I was a fantasy-prone thespian and budding writer. Together, we formed a classic example of left-brain thinker versus right-brain thinker.

During my teenage years, a normal Friday night went like this:

Phase 1: Mom and I rented one or two movies.

Phase 2: Later in the evening, Mom and I settled on the couch to watch the movies.

Phase 3: At some point during the middle of a movie, Dad approached and stood behind me, usually either scraping his teeth with a toothpick or eating a bowl of vanilla ice cream with slow, noisy swipes of his spoon against the bowl.

Phase 4: I noticed Dad behind me and flipped out. The man exuded a heavy presence just by standing and watching over my shoulder, and it distracted me to the point where I couldn't focus on the movie.

"You're looming again! Why do you always have to loom?" I yelled at him every time. "If you're going to watch the movie, why don't you just sit down?"

"No thanks," was his reply every time. Unperturbed by my spat, he would continue to pick his teeth or eat his ice cream, and I'd try to watch the movie, seething at the distraction. Sometimes when I felt particularly smothered by his presence, I whacked him with a couch pillow, which only served to make him smirk. Sometimes he whacked me with a pillow in return. Then he would wander away to do whatever Dad-like things interested him, which usually meant varnishing a cabinet if not building one from scratch.

We repeated that scene dozens of times over the course of several years.

As I grew up, I started to catch on: He'd been playing with me the whole time. He got a fiendish kick out of my spastic reactions. I think he even liked that I yelled at him. And it wasn't just that movie-time habit that I caught on to. What had always seemed like work to me was actually play to him. Spending hours tilling the garden, mucking in the mulch pile, or building a cupboard — those activities, to him, provided entertainment and satisfaction. Whereas I had seen him as an overly serious man who hardly ever relaxed enough to have a good time, I discovered over time that he was extremely playful.

I guess, with years of observation and familiarity, I started figuring him out. His ways weren't my ways, but they made sense when I understood how they worked for him.

When I started understanding him, I also started really enjoying our father-daughter relationship. I finally saw that he liked it when I sassed him, as long as the sass wasn't disrespectful.

He would do something that to him seemed purely logical, but his Dad-logic would baffle others. It became just as endearing as annoying. One time, I had carefully arranged a gift bag for a friend, fluffing the tissue paper so it peeked out of the bag in an attractive way. Then I made the mistake of turning my back on the gift for a few minutes. When I returned, I found Dad standing next to the gift bag, and the tissue paper had all been compacted down to the bottom of the bag.

"What did you do?" I asked.

"There was paper sticking out. I pushed it down."

"It was all set, though," I moaned. "Why did you do that?"

"What? I was helping."

"It's tissue paper! It's supposed to stick out of the bag, Dad!" I threw my hands up in the air in disgust. I had learned to deliberately exaggerate how upset I was with him over simple things. Why? For the simple reason that it amused him. Also, it satisfied my theatrical nature.

And Dad walked away, stifling his chuckles as I worked to salvage the crumpled tissue paper. Meanwhile, even though I had to redo my packaging job, I couldn't help laughing under my breath at the typical Dad behavior.

Another time, about a week before Mom's birthday, Dad asked me to come out to the garage so he could show me something. With a rare, proud grin on his face, he showed me a two-and-a-half foot tall urn with a burnt umber color and sandy-colored, swirly embellishments.

I had no idea what to think of it.

"What do you think of it?" he asked with eagerness. Please understand that _eagerness_ for my dad meant subtle expressions such as a tiny quirk of the eyebrows or a small sparkle in his eyes.

"It's an urn," I said. What else could I say? I suppose for someone who likes urns, it might offer some sort of urnish appeal.

"It's for your mother's birthday." I could hear a boyish happiness in his tone that I almost never heard from him. He obviously thought he had hit upon something wonderful that Mom would love. However, because it had no practical use, I knew it would be Mom's idea of clutter.

At least it wasn't a vacuum cleaner or a power tool. The urn had that going for it.

"That's . . . really nice. It's decorative. It's going to be a great decoration." I lied horribly, but he didn't notice because he felt so pleased with his acquisition. I suspected the urn would baffle Mom as much as it did me. On her birthday, she was indeed baffled, and she hid it as best she could as she unwrapped the urn. I struggled to repress my laughter.

To this day, the urn still decorates the living room. It grew on us eventually, and the memory attached to it is too funny for us to ever dispose of it.

People, mostly close relatives, have told me that I changed Dad. They say when his little girl came along, Dad slowly became a different man, somehow a little softer around the edges and more approachable.

I don't think that I changed him. If he changed at all, maybe I had a small part in it, but it wasn't just me. Instead, I listen to what Mom has to say on the issue, because as the woman who was married to him for over forty years, she would know.

"You showed me how to _handle_ him," is what Mom tells me.

Yes sir'ee, that's what I did. Through concentrated trial and error over the course of many years, I found just the right cocktail of sass, mock frustration, and admiration that he liked to be served. It was an art, and I was good at it. Rather than change him, what I did was find the right way to communicate.

Mom also wisely pointed out that some of the biggest changes in his habits and demeanor came about not because of me but because of two other, bigger factors. The first was losing Eric. No matter how strong and stoic a man is, the loss of a child will change him. The second was his cancer diagnosis.

* * *

Dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer in 2001. I was a college student at the time, and I'd returned home to Fort Wayne for summer break. After I returned from my job at the library one evening, Dad came upstairs and said he needed to talk to me, and he explained what was going on. He had gone to see the doctor for general reasons, but blood work had revealed an elevated Prostate-Specific Antigen (PSA) level, which led to further investigation and a prostate cancer diagnosis.

I'm ashamed to say that I know little of the specifics after that. Dad received treatment, and the treatment took a toll on him. College held my focus at that time, but Mom kept me informed about Dad's health, explaining how he coped with the effects. The treatment worked as it should: The cancer went into remission. I never doubted for a minute that the treatment would work.

Life resumed its normal pace for several years. Dad was well and healthy and enjoying all his normal — and sometimes consternating — activities. Occasionally I worried that the cancer might come back, but whenever those thoughts came up, I buried them far in the back of my mind.

In 2007, Dad's cancer returned. That time was different. The treatment options were fewer, and they were tougher. As the new round of treatment progressed, the wear started to show more and more on Dad. He had to slow down. He took naps more frequently. In 2008, it became obvious that the chemo wasn't having the effect he needed. Alternative treatments ran thin and then ran out. That wasn't all that was running thin: Dad started dropping weight. My dad who loved to eat, who sprinkled pepper on everything in clouds thick enough to make me sneeze, didn't much like the taste of food any more and struggled to keep on the pounds.

So what did my dad do?

The man decided to redo the damn back deck of the house and make it a screened patio!

Remember how I mentioned "typical Dad behavior"? _This_ falls in that category. Well, at least he didn't build the free-standing gazebo he'd been considering at first.

Oh, and get this: _He was still working._ Dad was a manager and structural analysis engineer for Navistar, a company known for its freight truck and engine design. He had to take significant amounts of time off for chemo treatments and sick days, but with his long employment and expertise, he had enough vacation time with which to mold his work hours to meet his needs. The company worked with him on scheduling flexibility. Dad was a walking catalog of easy-access knowledge and history of the business, and the company knew how to support one of its great assets. So thank you, Navistar, for treating my dad right.

In the summer of 2008, Dad did major work on the back deck. Whenever he ran out of energy, he stopped and rested.

"I worry about him," Mom confessed to me as he took one of his naps. "He has his good days and his bad days. But when he has his good days, he uses up all his reserves."

"He doesn't hold anything back?" I asked even though I knew the answer.

"No, he just keeps going until he has to stop, and then he's exhausted," she told me. "I wish he would be a bit more moderate about things, not wear himself out like that. But that's just his way, isn't it?"

Dad needed blood and platelet transfusions on an increasingly regular basis. As summer faded into fall, the progress of the deck project slowed to a crawl. However, with the help of devoted family members who had to travel a long way to lend a hand, the newly enclosed patio was completed in time for Thanksgiving. The patio became a holiday hit with the family.

* * *

December brought escalating physical problems for my father. I'm not going to go into the details, so I hope you'll understand when I simply say that he was sick.

Christmas of 2008 was a difficult holiday. It carried a heavy weight, and I had to show my dad a cheerful grin while knowing that he wouldn't be with us for Christmas the following year.

On January 5, 2009, a Monday, I was back at home in Indianapolis. After work, sometime around eight o'clock, I received a call from Mom. Dad was in the hospital again, and that's where she was calling from.

"He's decided to refuse further treatment. They're starting him on a morphine drip. He has probably another two, three days."

To live. She didn't add the last two words. She didn't need to.

This was The Call. It was time to come home. Funny, though, I hadn't expected it to come just then. I could have sworn it would come in March. March had been a bad month in the past.

"Do you want me to come home tonight?" I asked Mom.

She hesitated. It was late and dark. She wanted me home, but wasn't sure she wanted me driving. "No, not tonight. I think it'll be all right if you come in the morning."

I didn't like that. I didn't settle for it. "Are you _sure?_ " I pressed.

"Yes. No." A heavy sigh. "Hold on, let me check." A pause. "I talked to the doctor. He said to come home." She sounded both defeated and relieved when she said it, and I knew she wanted me there. "The roads are clear right now anyway." January in Indiana can sometimes be iffy for travel.

After I hung up the phone, I turned into a whirlwind. I asked my neighbors to watch my home; they went a step further and prepared a goody bag to help me travel late at night, including some trail mix and a can of caffeinated soda. I packed. It felt offensive to me that I had to pack clothes for my father's funeral when he was still alive, but I did it. I placed my confused cats into their carriers and put them in the car, and we headed out for the two-hour drive to Fort Wayne.

When I reached the third or fourth stoplight, I turned the car around and headed back to my townhome to get my cell phone charger. You know, I should have forgotten that by now. It's a stupid little detail. But when time slows down, even stupid details become memorable.

Another stupid detail: On the drive home, I kept wondering, "If a cop pulls me over for speeding, will he believe me when I tell him where I'm going and why? I could call Mom and let her talk to the cop." But I didn't get pulled over.

I went to the house first, not the hospital. I had to let the cats out. I grabbed Dad's pillow and a blanket from his bed. I thought it'd be nice to have a bit of home at the hospital.

It was almost midnight. I don't know what I expected to see when I arrived at the hospital room, but it wasn't what I got. Dad didn't look good, but he sat propped upright in the hospital bed, awake and alert. He had a big grin for me. I hugged him gently with my face pressed into his hospital pillow.

"You look good, kid," he told me with a crooked smile. His body was wasted, done, but his spirit was shining for me to see in his blue eyes. I know he was at peace with his decision to refuse treatment.

He died in his sleep the next morning.

Mom and I were both with him. Neither of us cried. I don't think we could have if we'd tried.

It's hard to cry for a man's death when you're too busy feeling proud of the way he lived.

* * *

When I first started thinking about what sort of charity the Kiss Chronicles project should benefit, the thought of cancer research skittered through my mind like an unwelcome mouse in a house. I shooed the thought out of my head. I intended for Kiss Chronicles to be a simple project, a summer project that would take just a few months, and I didn't want to dive that deeply into something so personal. I also didn't think I was strong enough. My dad's death still felt recent in many ways despite the two and a half years that had gone by. I didn't want to deal with the responsibility and all the emotions that would affect me if I took on the project in the name of benefitting cancer patients. I felt that I'd made the project personal enough already by putting myself in the position of telling everyone, the people I knew as well as complete strangers, that I lacked my first kiss. But to make it triply personal, to add the weight of my two family losses, brother and father, as well? Nuh-uh.

You can call me chicken if you want to. I'd agree with you.

I originally decided to benefit a charity that supported a basic human need. With that in mind, I had picked a small, local charity and contacted the employee responsible for special events. She loved the Kiss Chronicles idea, but as you already know, the idea didn't make it through a committee meeting.

When the first charity fell through, I took a deep, steadying breath and looked again at the idea of a cancer charity. And I realized that the first charity had to fall through _because_ it wasn't personal. I needed to make this project about something that mattered to me because otherwise I'd lack the true passion to follow through with the effort.

I took another deep breath, opened my mind, released my fears, and embraced the idea of benefitting a cancer-related charity. All at once, the idea didn't seem scary any more. I missed my dad, and in a lot of ways still hadn't faced his loss, and I missed my brother, too. However, instead of looking at fundraising for cancer as an emotional challenge, I realized I needed to see it as an opportunity to honor the family members that I'd lost. When I thought of it that way, how could it be scary?

For a while, I focused on the idea of benefitting prostate cancer research. However, Amelia and another contact I met at BS Ads had something to say about that:

"Do you really want to associate kissing with prostate cancer? Some people just aren't going to understand. They'll make all sorts of unfortunate comments and jokes."

Oh, for the love of Pete. What are we, six? Can we not say certain words like "poop" or "pee" or "prostate" without laughing our heads off? One in six men is diagnosed with prostate cancer. People need to be just as vocal about saying "save the prostates" as they are about saying "save the boobies." We also need "save the pancreas," "save the cervixes," "save the brains," and so on. (Okay, I admit, "save the brains" is a little tricky. You don't want people sounding like they're terrified of zombies.) Of course it'd be easiest if everyone just defaulted to the blanket statement of "cancer sucks."

Pardon the side track. I'll get off my soap box.

I prepared myself to push back on the issue and press to benefit prostate cancer research. However, I started thinking about how uneven the attention is for all the different types of cancer. And because of that, the idea of benefitting all types of cancer research, as well as cancer patient support, crept into my mind. The idea settled and started to grow.

I hadn't just lost my father to prostate cancer. I'd also lost my brother because of leukemia. And other people I know have been affected by cancers of all varieties. As I explored the blogosphere, I found story after story about loss and survival. How could I make Kiss Chronicles a project about only one type of cancer?

I couldn't. So I set my heart on finding a multi-cancer charity.

If you've wondered the "why" of my charity decision, there you have it. It seems like the reasoning should be more complicated, but it isn't.

* * *

By the way, as has already been revealed, I did finally get the cat that Dad refused to let me have when I was a kid. After college, as soon as I got a job, I did two things: I found my first apartment and adopted my first kitten, Zing.

I will never be able to shake this memory: At my parents' home, Dad reclined in his old, ratty brown chair, reading the newspaper. My tiny Zing kitten climbed with utter impudence into his arms and settled down for a cuddle. And Dad _let_ her.

Oh, it gets better, though. Let me recall a phone conversation for you:

"You know," I said to Dad, "because Zing's a little older now, I was thinking of leaving her here for the weekend this time instead of bringing her along. It's just overnight. She'll be fine." Because I lived only two hours away from my parents, I made frequent weekend visits, and I always brought Zing along with me.

"No, you should bring her," came Dad's reply.

I didn't keel over with shock. I assumed I must have heard him wrong.

"What, really?"

"Yeah, bring her along."

Pure, unadulterated _vindication!_

And you know what? My dad built a cat condo for me and Zing. I gave him an original design for it. He took my simple sketch, unleashed his creativity, and turned it into an elaborate tower. We redesigned it together, side by side at the kitchen table. The cat condo is taller than I am.

I'm not a daddy's girl, but I am, specifically, _my_ dad's girl.

CHRONICLE:

An Icy Christmas

By Andy Hollandbeck

I had felt so lucky that M had chosen me. She was a junior, a year behind me in high school. She was intelligent, beautiful, and interesting — the girlfriend trifecta. More importantly, we had been going out for almost two months. As all romantic high school boys think about all their girlfriends, I thought she might be The One that Hollywood had always promised. I loved her, and she loved me.

But we had never kissed.

The night of the Christmas dance was too perfect an environment for that to stand. We put on our fancy duds — me in an ill-fitting sport coat and tie, M in a red sequined strapless cocktail dress — and I took her out for a nice dinner with mutual friends.

Throughout dinner, I was romantic, interesting, attentive, debonair. I held doors for her, complimented her dress, and listened intensely to whatever she said. I was the perfect date. (And that's how I will remember it until I die.)

After dinner, I drove us into the night through a light snowfall to the high school.

We arrived a good half-hour early to the dance. I pulled into a parking spot and shut off the car, and we sat in the dark and talked. I told M she was beautiful and that I was lucky to have her in my life. I did my level best to woo her.

The conversation paused, as conversations do, and that quiet, intimate moment seemed perfect. I put my hand on the back of her seat and leaned across. My eyes narrowed, and my lips parted ever so slightly. Her perfume filled my mind. Slowly, tenderly, we came closer and closer, until . . .

. . . she scrunched up her face and recoiled. "What are you doing?!" she said.

I froze then, and that moment has remained frozen in my mind ever since.

I don't remember what I said. I might have said, "I'm trying to kiss you." I might equally have said, "I don't know." Both would have been true.

What I did know was that I had somehow screwed up. Big time. And I didn't know why.

We went in to the Christmas dance after that. I only know this because I have a picture of it. She looks great; I look like a dork. I don't remember anything else that happened that night after that cold, unexpected osculatory rebuke, and we never talked about the incident afterward.

The entire time we had been "a couple," I had wondered how I had been so lucky, why such a great girl had chosen me.

And after that night, she started to wonder, too.

### Chapter 10

Hindsight's a Bitch

At length, the merchant returned, his caravan wagons laden with goods from a successful journey. The girl and her friend ran out to greet him when they saw him step down from his wagon.

After making my decision to benefit a cancer-related charity, I discussed the change with Amelia. I wanted to make sure she agreed with and understood the seriousness of the change, that it would be okay with her if we moved the project to a more meaningful level.

"If this is what you really want, you should go for it," she said. "Don't worry about me."

"We're doing this together, though," I said. "By doing this, I'm changing what we agreed on at the start. I want to make sure you're okay with the switch."

"My grandfather has prostate cancer. His case isn't aggressive like your dad's was, but still . . . if you're up for doing this, I'm okay with it, and I'll back you up."

That settled that matter. All signs pointed in the same direction, indicating that my decision was the right one.

Next, I informed Mr. Toobusy of BS Ads about the matter. I let him know that the original charity, Dinner Bell, had fallen through for us, but that I now had something much better in mind. Just a couple of days later, Mr. Toobusy put me in touch with another person at the agency, Mrs. Inter Viewer, who handled account leads and PR.

On July 11th, Mrs. Viewer and I had an informal meeting at a café, and we spoke for an hour. She asked me questions about myself, such as my work and hobbies and why I'd never been kissed. She also asked about the Kiss Chronicles project, what I had in mind when I started it, what sort of effort I'd be willing to put into it, and so on.

I asked her questions as well.

"What does BS Ads hope to get out of becoming involved with Kiss Chronicles?" I asked. "I know Mr. Toobusy mentioned discussion about television or a documentary with some people during his visit to California, so I suppose that promotional aspect is part of it. And Amelia said you wanted to join in the social responsibility trend that's been growing lately. I suppose other than that, it's also just good press for you. And . . . I just answered my own question, didn't I?"

She laughed and nodded. "Yes, you pretty much did."

"Of course. Right. I also wanted to ask about the planning process. If BS Ads officially picks up Kiss Chronicles, what's that process going to be like? Will it be a collaborative process, and how much control are Amelia and I going to have in it?"

She assured me that if it happened, we'd be working with BS Ads on it, and that we'd retain rights to veto any plans we disliked or thought would not be in my best interests. I asked whether there'd be any contract involved, and she of course said yes.

"Has your company done any projects like this before?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Not at all."

"So is there any chance you have an idea about the possible scale or duration that BS Ads is thinking of if they pick up Kiss Chronicles?"

At that, she hesitated. "I'm afraid you'd need to talk to Mr. Toobusy about that question. He'd know more about those details than I do. I think, at this point, it's a little early to say about those things."

In other words, I could try to get the information I wanted, but I shouldn't expect it to be available. I tried not to show my disappointment — that had been one of the most important questions I'd brought with me to the meeting.

I had one more very big question to throw at her, though. "Could the company help with getting the charity involvement for the project?"

At that, Mrs. Viewer had a big smile for me. "Absolutely. If we pick this up, that'll be something we'll get involved in. We can make the connections happen on that."

At her words, I felt a rush of relief. After I'd received the rejection from the first charity, I realized how valuable the help would be. Connections could make a big difference.

Mrs. Viewer and I also discussed the potential for BS Ads to create an online voting system to determine who would become my first kiss, with three celebrities as the potential candidates.

"So would you be okay with it if Verne Troyer were one of the three celebrities?" she asked.

"Verne Troyer? I'm not sure who that is." I should probably mention that I'm not very knowledgeable about celebrities. I know the names of my favorites, and I know the ones who constantly make splashes on the media, but that's about it.

"He played Mini-Me in Austin Powers."

"The little guy? Sure, that'd be fine," I said. Still, I'm 5'7" tall, so he would need a step ladder.

"Really?" Mrs. Viewer laughed. "But from what I've read, he's bit of a creeper." And that's when I realized she'd been joking. We had a laugh together.

I think, as well as joking, she was testing me with that question. I don't think she understood that I'd already fully committed to kissing whoever won the auction. I'd given up control over that final decision for the sake of the concept in order to raise money for charity. However, I did realize that by "celebrities," BS Ads likely meant recognizable figures and not necessarily big-name actors, and Mrs. Viewer's joke solidified that suspicion for me.

In my reply to Mrs. Viewer's follow-up email after the meeting, I sent her a picture of Verne Troyer.

I thought the meeting went beautifully for the most part. I'd received answers for some questions, raised some new ones, and generally had an enjoyable time talking with Mrs. Viewer.

* * *

After that meeting, the waiting game began. Amelia assured me repeatedly that I needed to be patient because an ad agency takes time to plan and process these kinds of things. She told me that a project like Kiss Chronicles could take as long as eight weeks after the initial contact for final approval. Two months — that sounded like too long to me, but Amelia reassured me it was normal. Meanwhile, I felt the summer slipping away as the initial push and progress for Kiss Chronicles stuttered and hesitated like a nervous grade school student in a Christmas pageant.

I worked on updating the blog, building content for the future. I researched cancer-related charities. Amelia and I got together on a Saturday to work on a multimedia promotion for the project.

_Hindsight:_ I know now that even while waiting on BS Ads, I should have done more work at that time. I should have proceeded with the assumption that BS Ads would not, in fact, pick up Kiss Chronicles. I should have laid down plans with Amelia for the original auction. I should have started making contact with charities. I didn't do any of that, though. I waited patiently to see what the outcome would be because I thought that if we proceeded, we would create a mess that we'd have to untangle in order realign with BS Ads when the company officially picked up Kiss Chronicles.

I sent Mr. Toobusy a brief email on July 20th to check in. I received an email from Mrs. Viewer that day to tell me that they hadn't forgotten about me. I received a reply from Mr. Toobusy on July 24th (once again, this is paraphrased):

" _Hi, I apologize that it's taken so long to reply. I've been on the road and crazy busy!_

We're looking into the project and discussing what exactly we can do to lend a hand to your charity and kissing efforts. We can do something, but the question is figuring out what's going to be right for us and especially what'll be right for you.

I'll send an update this week."

It made a perfect message, really. It kept me on the hook for BS Ads, waiting with the hope that I'd get more information and discussion happening sometime soon. I felt, though, that something had gone wrong. The enthusiasm from Mr. Toobusy's previous emails had disappeared.

If the people at BS Ads were discussing Kiss Chronicles and coming up with plans and ideas about it, I had no clue what they were talking about. Whatever their thoughts were, I didn't know, and in fact, I sometimes doubted that they had spent any significant amount of time thinking about Kiss Chronicles. The waiting had begun to fray me around the edges, and I expressed my concerns to Amelia.

"Time's getting away from us," I pointed out. "We still have no charity."

"This is normal," she reassured me. "We need to wait and give BS Ads time because of their busy schedules."

My concerns lingered, but I accepted her advice.

Another week passed in silence despite the "update this week" statement that Mr. Toobusy had given me. I wanted, very badly, to start trying to make contact with potential charities.

I emailed Mr. Toobusy on August 1 to check in yet again and let him know about my wish to make progress. I asked him what the ad agency's level of interest was. I told him that if BS Ads was no longer interested, I'd understand. I thought if I gave him an easy out, he could take it if needed, and Amelia and I could move on.

However, he replied swiftly, assuring me that their interest hadn't waned but that they had an influx of new work come in. Here's the reply I got (and, as usual, I'm paraphrasing):

" _Thanks for sending the message. I realize I've been really spotty about keeping in touch. I don't want to make excuses, but today's my first day in the office in almost two weeks. I had a recent rush of business travel. In that time, though, we've been talking about Kiss Chronicles at length. The creative team has discussed what they could do, and I've talked about the celebrity angle with some friends in California._

I can tell you for certain that our interest hasn't waned, but our time is getting crunched recently because we've won some new clients. Of course, if you were a different client yourself, I couldn't tell you that, and I'd just keep plugging along and spinning plates. That wouldn't be fair to you, though. So, yes, I'm concerned that our level of involvement won't be what we want/need for this to be a wild success.

I need to spend the day today doing some office catchup, but then I can get in touch with you this evening to talk about what sort of commitment I can give you. Is that okay?"

I sent him a reply, agreeing to give him the time he asked for. His message sounded both wonderful and terrible, so I couldn't tell up from down. My blood pressure skyrocketed. I didn't hear back from him that evening, though. Instead, I waited for three days with the axe lingering over my head, wondering whether or not it would fall.

On August 4, the axe fell. Mr. Toobusy scheduled a phone call with me, and our first phone call was also the last. He cut the proverbial line and essentially said "swim free, little fishy!" I swam free with the bloody hook still caught in my mouth.

During the phone conversation, Mr. Toobusy told me that he still loved the project and believed in it.

"This a great thing you're doing, and I really want to see you both succeed at it," he said. "I'm sorry that we can't commit to it, but I could possibly still help. Maybe I could make some connections happen for you, get you two in touch with the right people. I could act in a sort of advisory role."

A small flicker of hope flared. If I could just get some help with one vital thing . . . it was just a small thing, something that wouldn't take much of his time, so I didn't feel it was too much to ask given the time I'd sacrificed for BS Ads.

"I've been looking into charities and want to get in touch with a couple of them," I said. "Could you maybe take a look at the original email I sent to the first charity and give me some feedback on how to revise it, make it more appealing?"

"Sure, I can definitely do that," he said.

So I forwarded him the email that evening.

I truly do understand why BS Ads couldn't commit to the Kiss Chronicles project. I even get why the company kept me on the hook for so long — the people there didn't want to let go of the opportunity until they were certain they couldn't take on the work. Mr. Toobusy declared interest and explored the possibility of getting involved at a point when the company had time for it, but other business came up. Nothing personal drove the decision to walk away, only money.

I'd love to say I'm not bitter toward BS Ads, but . . . well, okay, I'm bitter. However, it's not about what you'd think! It's not about the fact BS Ads dropped the project, and it's not about the time I lost waiting on the company's decision.

What I'm bitter about is the fact that he never replied with feedback on the charity email. The fact that he didn't do that small task showed that his statements about offering advice, acting as a sort of project advisor, had been all talk and no substance, just empty words to make him seem like a good guy at the end.

I can deal with disappointments, with something nearly working out but not coming to fruition. What I got at the very end, though, was a sudden demonstration of smoke and mirrors, an insincere offer, and that's what leaves me feeling like I just ate a bunch of sour grapes.

* * *

I kept my composure fairly well while I wrapped up the phone conversation with Mr. Toobusy. But when it was over, I called Amelia and broke down crying over the phone to her because the tension and waiting had finally snapped loose, crashing to an end, and I had no energy left to hold back my emotions.

"We've lost six weeks," I pointed out to her.

Her final year of college would be starting soon, but would she have time to move forward on Kiss Chronicles? I expressed that concern to her, as well as others. I had no idea what to do with the project — we could still do the auction, but I had fallen wildly in love with the ideas that BS Ads had come up with that would involve the audience voting for the kisser at the end.

What now? What direction? How do we regroup?

I wanted to meet with Amelia in person as soon as possible to reassess our plan and make decisions about how to proceed. I felt an urge to move forward and show the people at BS Ads that we didn't need them, as well as an urge to start progressing on the project for my own sake. It had been months since my thirtieth birthday, and the project would take months to complete because we needed to start nearly from scratch again. Furthermore, I no longer had the reassurance that BS Ads could help us secure a great charity.

Amelia couldn't meet with me right away. She had work she needed to catch up on, and she had a bridesmaid role in a wedding coming up in the near future. I had to give her a chance to take care of urgent matters first.

While waiting on my partner, I went into brainstorm mode. I made lists, notes, plans. I struggled with the decision of whether to return to the auction idea or to officially stick with the idea that BS Ads had presented, the idea that I called the _donation war_ — we would recruit a few potential kissers, and people following the war would vote for the potential kisser of their choice by making a donation to charity. I thought that perhaps we could still make it work even if we involved regular guys instead of celebrities.

I realized that I didn't want to do the auction any more. The donation war, as I saw it, solved several major problems that could occur with the auction idea. However, doing the project that way required ten times as much coordination because it involved more puzzle pieces and variables. The auction, though less desirable to me, could fall into place with fewer, simpler steps. I wanted to discuss the pros and cons of the donation war and the auction with Amelia first and foremost the next time we met so we could make a reasonable decision together based on what would work best for both of us.

Meanwhile, I couldn't contact a charity without a firm plan. What could I say?

"Oh hi, I have two ideas, and I don't know which one I'm going go use, but do you mind working with me so I can make money for you?"

I can tolerate putting myself through some mild embarrassment. However, I prefer to avoid acting like a complete moron if I can help it.

I contented myself, for the meantime, by researching charities. I cruised around on CharityNavigator.org (awesome site, by the way) on a regular basis to find information. I made a long list of possibilities and then started winnowing it down to top candidates. I used the Charity Navigator site to compare the financial information of the best-ranked cancer-related charities.

Because I'd made the charity so much more personal to me, I put more thought into it than I had at the start of the project. I needed to take a responsible approach to the charity decision because I wanted to make sure every dime counted. I wanted to know that the charity would use the donations to fund research, which is necessary for future cancer research breakthroughs. I also wanted the donations to help patients, the people who currently lived with the struggles and pains of cancer every day. Research and patient support — I wanted a balance. To get that balance, I needed to know the charity, not just choose whichever one seemed agreeable and convenient.

I made some progress on my own, but I needed to get in touch with Amelia to solidify plans. I emailed her on the 14th of August, a week and a half after BS Ads set me loose. I didn't get a response to that email.

_Hindsight:_ A project partner ignoring emails is a sign of bad things to come. Don't try to gloss it over or ignore it.

I knew that even though Amelia needed some time, I couldn't act like a passive damsel. I'd done enough of the passive thing. I'd missed opportunities already during the waiting period when dealing with BS Ads, either because I let the opportunities go or because I didn't notice them at all. However, this lesson I could put to immediate use. Despite Amelia's busy schedule, I could take other actions.

I dove deeper into the blogging community. I needed to explore that avenue to seek connections, to make progress, and to gain followers, but also to learn from other bloggers and their experiences. I checked out some big blogging communities that appealed strongly to a female target audience, such as BlogHer and Blogalicious.

I created my @KissChronicle Twitter account on August 15th. You can't see it, but I'm shaking my fist at the faceless Twitter user who already had the @KissChronicles (with an _s_ ) account. And you know what? I can't even remember what finally prompted me to start tweeting. I think it just seemed like a natural progression. I still posted regularly on the Kiss Chronicles blog. I had noticed that bloggers with large followings also maintained Twitter accounts and cultivated followers. Twitter is a thing to do if you blog. I wanted to be one of the big kids, the cool bloggers. Well . . . it also looked like it might be fun.

I sent Amelia another email on the 22nd, and that time I got a response. We had a phone call the next day. I poured my thoughts out to her regarding the charity and the pros and cons of the two possible project methods. She listened and made some suggestions.

Then she explained to me that as part of her fall courses, she had begun a class on marketing for nonprofits. It sounded like just what we needed.

Then she said four words that gave me the shivers.

"Give me some time."

_Tick tock, tick tock._ Like a comic book villain that just won't die, my nemesis, Time, returned.

She continued. "I can get information from this class that will be helpful to us," she told me. She wanted me to wait and allow her to find out about potential resources and strategies that we could use for Kiss Chronicles.

Time. Waiting. Again.

Time's a funny thing, so quiet and yet so significant. I'd seen over thirty years of time slip by without a kiss, and even after I'd decided to take action and make it happen, more time flowed around and past me, as though I couldn't move along with it.

I didn't care much for the idea of waiting on a college course that might or might not prove useful.

"I'll give you a few weeks, until mid-September, but I don't want to wait longer than that," I explained to Amelia. "At that point, we need a plan of attack."

"That's just three weeks, though. I'll hardly even be into the course," she said.

"But if we don't keep working, we'll just keep losing ground," I said. "Here's my thought — I'm going to apply to get the blog into the BlogHer community when the blog reaches ninety days old. That'll be on September 16th. After that, I want to start making real progress again. You'll get a start on the course, and maybe you can talk to your professor about it, and I'll do what I can until then with the blogosphere and making some decisions."

"Okay," she replied, but I heard reluctance in her voice. "I get that this is urgent for you. I just wish I could get a little farther into the course first."

"If you learn something as we go along, a new trick, we can always incorporate it down the road," I said, aiming for positivity.

In many ways during that conversation, I felt as though Amelia was slipping away. I wanted to get her involved again by doing something, _anything,_ for the project. I had a very minor task that I could use help with, one that wouldn't take her much time or effort.

"Could you do me a favor?" I asked. "It's not a big one, but it would be great if you'd help me find potential blog content. It doesn't take much, just a quick search on Google for kissing-related content or news, and you can email me whatever you find. It's not urgent."

"I think I can do that."

I had hoped that during that call we'd resolve the dilemma of whether or not to use the donation war concept or the auction plan, but it didn't happen.

Before the call ended, I had one more thing on my mind that I wanted to get her help with.

"I'd really like to change the blog design," I said. "The blog theme we're using now is missing some functions that I'd like to have. The sidebar's no good, and other themes offer a better menu layout. I think we can do better. Do you think you'd have time to work on it together this weekend?"

"I don't have any time on Saturday, and I only have a little time on Sunday."

"Okay, hmm." I thought for a moment. "In that case, I'll take it as far as I can on my own. I should be able to get most of it solo, but I might need help with a couple leftover design elements."

"Works for me. Just let me know," she said.

That week, I picked a new theme and learned my way around WordPress.com. I rebuilt the blog to make it better and sharper — more like the blogs I'd been looking at in recent days. By the end, I was pleased that I had successfully fixed everything except one final design element: the header image.

I called Amelia and left her a voice message. "I redesigned the blog. I think it's a big improvement. The only thing that needs a fix from you is the header image. I'd love it if you'd take a look at the new layout and let me know what you think." I never got a call back. I received a short text message later in the day from her, telling me that she'd fixed the header.

I spent the next weeks immersing myself in the blogosphere, following leads and communicating. I looked for material I could use on the blog that would draw in a following, content that people could enjoy. I picked up Pinterest (a social network of virtual pinboards) to help with that, as supplemental material for the blog. I started filling up a pinboard full of kissing images, hoping to amuse visitors and encourage them to stick around and revisit.

I also worked to establish and increase a following on Twitter. I found Twitter parties to attend, several of them with guest "speakers," and a couple of the parties were promotional events. I met new people as I learned how to use the service and discovered what makes an interesting Twitter account. By observing tweets made by others, I discovered that marketing yourself on Twitter is yawn-inducing. I don't care if you want to promote your sponsored giveaway or raffle or product line. Tweet something that makes me laugh or think, and then we'll talk.

I found a particularly special Twitter account in those early days of tweeting. I paid special attention to tweets related to cancer and did searches on the subject to find relevant accounts, and in doing so, I stumbled across @Jack_Marshall_. I started following the account, which is run by Jack's parents. I learned the story of a mom who loved her "little man," a brave six-year-old boy who had already had a brain tumor removed and who lived with cancer. They had a dream of reaching 100,000 followers in their effort to promote brain tumor awareness. At the time I began following the account, they had over 70,000 followers, and the number grew steadily.

Jack passed away only a short time after I found him on Twitter. Long live Jack's Army. In case you're wondering, as I check it right now, Jack's Twitter account has 100,720 followers, all of us members of Jack's Army.

For all my additional motivation from Jack's story and other such stories that I'd found online, I still had to keep focused on practical matters. I would have liked to ask Amelia to design a business card, but I didn't feel I could ask her for additional help on anything else just then, so I didn't bring it up with her. Instead, another friend of mine, someone I knew online and who goes by the alias of Hamsterfest, volunteered to lend a hand. With great relief and a bit of glee, I began discussing the card design with Hamster.

Meanwhile, I noticed that Amelia had begun to promote her designs for sale on Facebook, a new venture that I hadn't seen her working on before. She had found time to start a new project, so I hoped that might mean she could find some time to work on Kiss Chronicles again.

Eventually, September 16th came around. With the excitement of a child on Christmas who already knows she's about to get a new bike, I tried to apply to the BlogHer community . . . only to find that I couldn't submit my blog because I used WordPress.com rather than WordPress.org.

_Hindsight:_ WordPress.com doesn't allow advertising. Advertising is required in order to join certain blogging communities.

I couldn't let that mistake get me down for long. Joining the community would have been helpful, but I could find and use other methods to promote and share the blog, spreading the foothold of the project. Yes, I'm aware that it's possible to transfer from WordPress.com to WordPress.org. However, joining a community wasn't a priority, nor did I want to have advertising on my blog. My technical skills, also, were at a level where I could try to make the transfer on my own and spend hours going through the process with caution and care, only to accidentally end up having to start all over due to one boneheaded click at the very end.

Joining the BlogHer network was a wish, not a need. What I needed was my partner, Amelia.

I sent Amelia an email on September 18th.

" _Hi again, Amelia!_

The blog is now over 90 days old. I've discovered on Friday that I can't submit an application to BlogHer: I use free-hosted WordPress, which doesn't run ads. To apply, I'd have to self-host or switch to another service, which are both do-able, but not at the moment something I'm interested in doing. Meanwhile, I also currently have four sources of potential help and/or information that I'm waiting to hear back from, and I'm working continuously on Kiss Chronicles content.

There's something I need from you, and I don't want it right away. I want you to take time to think about some things and let me know your answers:

What is your responsibility regarding the Kiss Chronicles project, its existence and continuation?

What is your level of involvement?

What is your level of commitment?

What is your honest availability?

How would you define your role in the project? What do you want your role to be?

My problem right now is that I don't know what I can and can't ask of you due to your busy schedule. I know I asked for help resourcing content from you a couple weeks ago, but I haven't received anything from you on that. I have a big thing that I could use help with right now, rather urgently, but again, I know you're busy and haven't been talking to me aside from super-short replies, so I'm reluctant to ask.

I have no idea whether you're working on Kiss Chronicles on your own. If you are, I'd like an update on what you've been doing. If you aren't working on it, I'd like to get you involved again, but I'm not sure what your availability is.

In summary, here's my request: Think, then talk when ready."

Reading this letter again so much later, I see so many things behind the words, mostly fear, desperation, and a strong suspicion of what was about to come. I didn't want it to come. I might just as well have written her a single line in all caps, "FOR THE LOVE OF FLUFFY KITTENS, DON'T LEAVE ME!"

_Hindsight:_ Knowing something bad is coming my way and being able to predict pain before it happens — none of that stops it from hurting like a bitch.

A week passed without any word, and a cold sensation of dread settled like an unwelcome guest in my stomach.

A second week passed, and on October 1, I received Amelia's reply. I could try to paraphrase it, but I'm certain I would only make a muck of it, so I'm simply going tell you the points she made:

* She put time and thought into her role moving forward and also expressed her sympathy that getting into BlogHer didn't work out.

* She explained that her semester workload was heavy, leaving her pressed for time.

* She said that the project had evolved to be less about the charity and more about the blog. The blog was more about me, and not something she could help with.

* She pointed out that the project had become more long-term than what had been envisioned at the start.

* She said to let her know when I started thinking about the charity event, and that then she'd help out as much as she could.

Until I could get the project in gear, though, I would be on my own. I no longer had a partner, and the skills that I had counted on her for, well, I'd have to do without them. I could possibly get her involved again, but only if I had the project in functioning, working order.

It was a nice email. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that, either — she explained her situation clearly, and she put thought into her words, and the result was a nice email. Her message didn't have the tiniest bit of meanness in it, nor would I have expected any from her.

Wrapping a box of bees with bright paper and a bow doesn't prevent them from stinging when the box gets opened.

I felt more emotions than I could handle, each one with its own sting. Abandonment. Broken trust. Guilt over feeling petty and selfish about her quitting, and a second dose of guilt because I couldn't control my emotions. Fear for the future of my project. Terror that I might have to explain to everyone that I'd failed and my promises meant nothing. Sadness that I might not be able to raise the money for a cancer charity after all. Embarrassment that I'd revealed my buried secret, that I'd never been kissed, to friends, family, and strangers, and all for what? A project I couldn't hold together? But above all, I felt a choking, aching sensation of being small, unimportant, and _alone._

The real kick in the teeth was that she had legitimate reasons for, in her words, "stepping aside." I disagreed with her assessment that the project had become more about the blog than the charity, but I knew she'd gotten that impression from my requests for help on the blog. I was mad at her, and at the same time, I didn't have the right to be nearly as mad as I felt. She had her own life and other interests.

What did I have? I had a project, a dream that I loved that was going up in flames, and I couldn't put out the fire. What could I do? Would I have to post an announcement on the blog, apologizing that I couldn't manage the charity event after all? And even if I did that, how many people would I have to tell in person that I'd started my crazy idea only to fail at it? The idea of explaining my failure and facing people's sympathy or pity _burned_ me, and at that thought, the tears broke free.

Over the phone, I had cried to Amelia when BS Ads cut Kiss Chronicles loose. Not long after I received Amelia's email, I picked up the phone and cried while my mother listened to me with patience and understanding as my emotions overflowed. I felt too much to contain it all, and she helped me let it all out.

You know, in other circumstances, I might feel embarrassed to tell you that I sobbed like a baby to my mom over the phone. But you already know I haven't had my first kiss yet, so really, what's the big deal with a little blubbering?

When the tears stopped, Mom and I talked for a while, and she asked me, "This doesn't mean you have to quit, does it?"

"No," I said without hesitation, shocking myself. Although the thought had occurred to me that I _could_ quit, and just imagining the result had been painful, her question made me realize with clarity that I _wouldn't._ "No. How can I quit? I love this project even more now than I did at the start."

The unexpected truth of my own words shook me. I loved Kiss Chronicles vastly more than I did when we began it in June, because I had decided to benefit something that mattered to me. And that made all the difference.

I knew that I couldn't, in my frame of mind at that time, respond to Amelia's email. I wouldn't have been able to keep my reply even remotely civil, and I refused to turn into a beast. My least-pleasant emotions had full control of me. If I had replied to her email, I would have lashed out with the intent to hurt, and I would have regretted it all the way to the bottom of my soul. I resolved to wait, to cool my head, and then respond when I no longer felt raw.

Meanwhile, I had a project to save.

_Hindsight:_ To be able to save something, you usually need some idea of how to save it. I didn't know how to save Kiss Chronicles, but that didn't stop me from trying.

* * *

" _Oh, you're still here? Hello again," the merchant said when he saw the girl and her friend. "I cannot help you with your quest for the Special Kiss. There's nothing in it for me, and I have business to do. Run along, now. It's not as if your quest is that important anyway." He chuckled and returned to his wagons to oversee the work._

Dejected, the carpenter's daughter and magician's apprentice continued the search. After two more months of searching, the girl's friend turned to her and said,

" _I can no longer help you with your quest for the Special Kiss. I will go on my own quests and adventures now. Fare thee well, and good luck." The magician's apprentice walked back the way they'd come, taking the road for home._

For a long time, the girl watched her friend walk away, but then she turned forward once more and continued her quest alone.

CHRONICLE:

Mix Tape

By Tom Farrell

Her name was a song, and when I met her it was hard not to sing it.

Cue the violins.

The first thing I noticed was her eyes, green, and vaguely blue when she moved under the fluorescent light. Man, those eyes could melt stone. I sat across from her in the café, sneaking peeks at them, week after week, month after month. We were just acquaintances who shared some laughs. Many laughs later, we became friends.

Verse.

We both had a passion for music and had each been musicians in our own ways, she from the symphony hall, and I from the alley behind. When we spoke of bands, it wasn't always easy to find common ground. But for me, her passion was more important than her playlist.

Refrain.

I'd crawl through the week and think of her. I'd sleep on half a bed, pillows piled beside me in soft, feathery dreams of her. And then I'd walk into the café and see her sitting there, a sly smile creeping up her cheeks.

Those evenings at the café, I'd steal looks at her eyes and imagine things in them. The glint of twilight became a fantasy of her crushing on me. The first time she sent me a text message, it was a picture of her new tattoo; song lyrics running down her back. The message seemed so personal, and I wondered what it meant. Could the fantasy be real? I resolved that we were just friends being friends.

Bridge.

Then for my birthday, she gave me something I had always wanted a girl to give me. Something so simple, but so thoughtful. She gave me a mix tape. On it were songs that sang of yearning and hope and despair. Extreme highs and bottomless lows. The melody of us.

I listened to the tracks start-to-finish, and when they ended, I felt like I knew her better than anyone. More than that, I felt like she knew me. I sent her a message telling her how I felt, and she admitted to feeling the same. I imagined her eyelashes fluttering over those emerald eyes. A few days later, we met at the café and ventured off to dinner, just the two of us. All those nights together sipping coffee, but this was our first real date.

We ate slowly and talked nervously until the tables around us were covered with upturned chairs. We sat for a while, talking in the parking lot, and when the lot cleared and we felt suspect, we moved to another lot. Then another. We found a bar still serving and laughed over a few beers. At last call, we wandered out into the night. The light pollution of the city had cleared, and the stars were shining through.

We drove through the sleeping city and back to the café where her car was parked. We talked a while more, my words an endless jam to keep her from reaching for the door handle. I felt the tension building, and I wanted to smash it. That was it. No more stolen glances. No more awkward smiles.

Crescendo.

I turned and leaned into her. I pulled her close. And when our lips met, I silently sang her name.

### Chapter 11

Grasping at Straws

For months, the girl wandered aimlessly. One day, as she frowned at her maps by the side of a road, an elderly wizard saw her and stopped. "Why so glum, child?" he asked.

The carpenter's daughter said, "I'm on a quest for a Special Kiss, but I have no idea how to find it. I'm lost."

" _Do you know your way home?" he asked. The girl nodded, so he smiled and said, "Then you aren't truly lost."_

" _But if I go home, if I give up, I will have failed my quest," she said._

The wizard stroked his gray beard. "I see. Here, just a moment." He took a large bag from his shoulders. He rummaged in it and at length produced a quill with a brilliant red plume. "This is a phoenix feather quill. I give it to you as a gift and a reminder that success is what you make of it."

" _Thank you." She accepted the quill. "Is it magic?" she asked._

He smiled and hefted his bag back onto his shoulders. "It might be." As the wizard walked away, he shouted over his shoulder.

" _But only if you write with it!"_

After Amelia quit the project on October 1, I went into brainstorm mode. I needed to find a way to make the donation war work — but to do that, I needed to start asking for help wherever I could get it.

Eww.

Really, who likes asking for help? It's a humbling prospect. But at that time, after my disappointment with BS Ads and then again with Amelia, I felt humbled enough to ask for a hand. I also felt more determined and more in love with the Kiss Chronicles project than ever. The decision to benefit cancer research and cancer patients, to do this thing in memory of my father and brother, had changed something inside me. I couldn't give up on benefitting charity. It had become a promise to myself as well as to others.

I still wanted a kiss, too. Sometimes, though, I forgot about that detail. Oh, it still occurred to me. I knew that Time kept doing its thing and flying forward. My next birthday, my thirty-first, seemed much closer, only half a year away, and I realized that on my own, my chances for getting my first kiss via the project before my thirty-first birthday had dimmed considerably. I had to accept the possibility that I might not be able to reach my goal before I turned thirty-one.

I didn't want to take that lying down. I had to get up on my feet again. To get up, I needed help.

At this point, I need to jump backward in the chronology. Take a leap with me back to June, when the project had just begun. I had told my friend Erica about Kiss Chronicles, and she loved the idea. ( _Everybody_ loved the idea when I told them about it. That initial reaction from people kept reaffirming to me all along that the idea would appeal to an audience.) Well, Erica described the project to two of her friends, Allison and Jacy, one evening as they prepared to go out for a night downtown.

Erica, whom I live close to, called me over to talk to her friends and tell them more about the project. I'd been gardening when Erica called me, so there I sat in Erica's kitchen, a bit sweaty, wearing my sloppy shorts and tank top, facing three immaculately dressed women who wanted to know about Kiss Chronicles. I remember feeling like a lost waif, a ragamuffin, as I explained to them about my first kiss issues and my plans to raise money for charity.

"That is the most amazing, inspiring story I've heard in a long time," Allison told me with wide eyes.

"I don't know about that." I shrugged a shoulder. How should I respond to such a statement?

"No, this is a big deal. This could be huge," Allison insisted.

I gave her a smile. "I just hope it'll appeal to people. I mean, I think it will, and that's what I'm going for."

"You are so brave for doing this," Allison said. "I just think it'd be so amazing if there were a way for me, for us, to get involved." Allison offered me her business card, and Jacy followed right behind with her own card. I discovered from their cards that Allison worked as a professional trainer, and Jacy was a professional makeup artist.

"I have a friend who writes articles for a fitness magazine," Allison told me. "I also have some other friends and connections who might be helpful for your project. I'm already envisioning getting a dream team together on this."

Their offer stunned and delighted me. I accepted their business cards with gratitude, but I explained to them about the involvement of BS Ads, that I was waiting to find out what the next move would be. I couldn't tell them whether or not I needed the help at that time. However, I promised to keep them informed as I went along.

I did just that. I sent them monthly emails starting at that time. In the emails, I gave them status updates, telling them about everything I'd been doing for Kiss Chronicles.

When BS Ads rejected the project at the beginning of August (two months before Amelia quit), I emailed Erica, Allison, and Jacy to let them know. Allison responded two weeks later — she mentioned her busy schedule, including work and her own wedding planning, but she declared that she still wanted to help and would start putting together the "dream team" that she'd mentioned when we first met.

After that contact, I continued to keep them informed about the efforts I made, updating the blog site, getting established on Twitter, and so on.

After Amelia quit Kiss Chronicles, I contacted Erica and Allison and met with them on October 7th so that we could start discussing possibilities. I gave them both more detail about the donation war concept and how I envisioned it could work. Allison's enthusiasm and assurance about the project instilled a renewed confidence in me. We discussed possibilities for what I called the _Kiss Contenders_ (the potential kissers) for the donation war.

"I'm thinking about the general idea of who should be a Kiss Contender," I explained to them. "The Kiss Contenders should be guys who have stories of their own that would attract voter interest for the war. Men who are competitive and can bring humor to the effort would also be perfect. I'm thinking about finding a guy with a significant presence in local charities. I'd also like to invite a returned soldier or maybe even a decorated hero, and definitely a cancer survivor. Local sports figures might also be a possibility. I just don't know whether the celebrity angle is doable any more."

I also figured that, no matter who I asked to be in the donation war, the effort would take time and that I'd get plenty of "no's" before any "yes's."

"Don't give up on that angle," Allison said. "Really. We can make it happen. So, honestly, tell me, if you could pick any guys, celebrities, who would they be?"

"Well," I hesitated, but finally I coughed up the real answer. "I was thinking, there's this movie coming out soon, _50/50._ It's actually a movie about cancer, but more of a bro story for young adults. The three main guys involved with it, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Seth Rogen, and Will Reiser, would be perfect options for Kiss Contenders because the movie subject relates directly to the charity."

"Who are they?" she asked.

"Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Seth Rogen are the main actors in the movie, and Will Reiser wrote it based on his own life as a young cancer survivor."

Allison grinned at me. "See? You have such good ideas."

I shrugged. "Maybe, but there's no way that'd work. Here's the thing: I can either recruit only guys who are local to Indianapolis, or I can try to recruit beyond Indy, which would open up a lot more options. Staying local would make everything simpler, though." I was frequently torn between thinking as big as possible and thinking as realistically as possible.

From there, we moved on from the Kiss Contender discussion. Allison talked about giving me a makeover so that I could have some good photographs taken for marketing purposes. Allison's sister is a hair stylist, so with her help and Jacy's professional makeup skills, a makeover could come naturally at the hands of these ladies, whom I dubbed the Kiss Crew. I showed Erica and Allison the business card designs that my online friend, Hamster, had been working on so I could get their opinions. When we wrapped up the meeting, I left feeling positive and determined.

I wanted to set up another meeting soon, and we did, but it fell through due to a scheduling conflict. We couldn't meet again for weeks.

I realized early that the timing sucked. The ladies of the Kiss Crew had beastly schedules. However, I was grasping at straws at that point. After facing crippling disappointments since the start of the project, and after seeing months go by without progress, I'd grown a desperate edge without realizing it. I took a risk by involving new people so deeply so quickly, and because I needed the help I was determined to work through or around conflicts that arose. I felt as though I didn't have other options, so I gambled.

In short, I made a mistake. I welcomed, encouraged, and even depended on the involvement of the Kiss Crew members, relying on their enthusiasm and participation. My desperation, my mistake.

* * *

I decided, after receiving Amelia's email of resignation, that I would wait to respond to her until I cooled off, until I felt that I could form a reply with some emotional distance.

That plan had a problem. As the weeks passed, I didn't cool down. The anger didn't burn as high and furious as it had to begin with, but it stayed hot and, to my surprise, grew deeper. It settled inside me and festered. I couldn't understand why I still felt that way — whenever I had a problem with someone, in my experience, all I had to do was step back from the situation and give myself a little time. That method had never failed me in the past. Plus, her reasons for her decision had been logical, which should have helped me cool off even faster. I couldn't figure out why the situation with Amelia was different, why the negative feelings were growing instead of fading.

I hated feeling that way. I especially hated feeling that way about a friend I'd had in my life for many years. The emotion felt vile, and I wanted it to stop. I told myself that I needed to let it go, that I couldn't allow myself to feel that way. It didn't work, and I grew angry at myself.

Amelia had done nothing to deliberately hurt me. She quit the project for various reasons, and she did it without any ill will. What kind of selfish skuzzball was I for feeling angry over that? The project grew difficult. It took hits. She left to pursue other big things in her life, other more profitable things. Not that complicated, right?

_It's not worth getting angry over,_ I tried to tell myself. _I have no right to be angry. If I'd done some things differently, done them better, she might not have left._

The other side of me, the bitchy side, had a reply for that. _She took a leap of faith off a cliff with me and then opened a damn parachute! Meanwhile, here I am, still free falling. Screw her and the parachute she jumped with. Um, are those rocks below? That's gonna sting._

In a related turn of events, God decided to give me the bird, and I'm not talking about a dove of peace. The pastor and a visiting priest at my church delivered homilies on forgiveness for three Sundays in a row starting at the end of October. Their speeches seemed to be written to talk directly to me about my situation. God likes to mess with my head.

"Look, I'm trying," I prayed quietly during Mass. "I want to forgive, and I really want to let go. You could lend a hand by sending me some of that grace stuff about now!"

The grace didn't come right away. I had to work to achieve it.

* * *

Meanwhile, even as I sought assistance from the Kiss Crew, I lit two additional fires and started fanning the new flames.

First, I contacted a couple of professors at my alma mater, the University of Indianapolis. I had graduated with two degrees, Theatre and English, so I knew several staff members in both departments.

I thought to myself, "Well, soliciting stories for the blog has turned out to be pretty difficult. I need more stories. Actually, I don't need just any stories — I need _good_ stories. Who better to tell those stories than creative students?"

I discussed my idea with Jim, the chair of the theatre department: I wanted to invite his students to use their theatre skills to tell kiss stories in whatever creative ways they wanted, and I would post those stories on the blog. With a more vibrant, interesting blog, I could promote it better and attract readers. With a greater following for the blog, I could take the project much further.

I spent an hour discussing the matter with Jim. He agreed to check with the theatre board to see whether it would be acceptable for me to show up at a theatre meeting and give a brief pitch to the students.

Jim gave me the green light: I could come to a meeting on October 24 between the first and second weekends of the fall play, _Chocolate Soldier._ I appreciated the delicious irony of _Chocolate Soldier_ as the fall play. My dad had been a fan of George Bernard Shaw. The play seemed like a good omen.

I prepared ahead, writing out and rehearsing what I wanted to say. At the theatre meeting, I gave a ten-minute pitch to the students, and it went wonderfully. I explained the idea and my request, and the theatre students laughed at my jokes in all the right places.

After my pitch, I waited in the theatre lounge for the rest of the meeting to run its course, making myself available in case any students wanted to chat afterward. My patience was rewarded: Two students came straight at me after the meeting. One wanted to know more about my timetable (I had no clear timetable, only a vague notion of "hopefully spring") and the potential for getting involved. The other, a reporter for the university's student newspaper, wanted to set up an interview for an article. I left with their contact information. I also left riding a high of satisfaction and hopefulness, the likes of which I hadn't felt since the very start of Kiss Chronicles in June.

I mentioned to you that I lit _two_ metaphorical fires. That theatre contact was the first. The second held even more incredible potential. A friend, Tom, put me in touch with a friend of his, Michelle, who happened to be one of the producers of a monthly local TV show called _Real Scene TV._ Tom had told her about Kiss Chronicles, and she was interested in reporting on it.

I met with Michelle on October 18th on the opposite side of town from where I live. I didn't get lost finding my way there — instead, I got lost when trying to get into the building. I had to call Michelle from outside to have her come find me. Yes indeed, I arrive at meetings with _style._

Michelle and I talked for two hours. I explained the donation war concept, and we discussed that in great detail. Michelle's enthusiasm kept growing during the course of the meeting.

"We have to stop talking about this," Michelle told me. "You're making me wish I had the time to do this. There's just so much you could do, so many possibilities."

She gave me several ideas for potential local Kiss Contenders. She first suggested Pat MacAfee, a punter for the Colts.

"He's known for doing some funny and unusual things," she said. "And what about Gene Simmons from the KISS band? You know, the guy with the tongue?"

I must have looked suitably terrified because my facial reaction alone made her laugh.

She also suggested Mike Epps, a comedian and actor who was born in Indianapolis and, according to Michelle, sometimes resides in Indy.

I told her about the Kiss Crew, the women helping me, and their plan for giving me a makeover and getting photographs taken. Because just about every audience loves a makeover, Michelle and I discussed how we could bring _Real Scene TV_ in to film the makeover effort and let the show conduct an interview about the project.

I left that meeting with Michelle's assurance that whenever we, the Kiss Crew and I, prepared for the makeover, I could loop Michelle into it and get _Real Scene TV_ on the scene. I felt excited about this plan because it would benefit the Kiss Crew members by promoting their professional talents, which I hoped would keep them interested and involved.

I knew what direction the project needed to go in — planning and preparation. I had elements lined up to help propel the project after the plan-and-prep phase. All I needed was momentum.

* * *

I had a second meeting with the Kiss Crew, that time with Jacy present, on November 4th. At the meeting, I told them about my charity research, what information I'd found so far. I told them that I had two charities in mind, and my next move would be directly contacting both of them. I also laid out a basic five-phase process for accomplishing the donation war, though some supporting details for each phase needed to be filled in.

Erica suggested I write a business letter that I could use to contact businesses and individuals to request their involvement. (She helped me draft it in the two weeks following the meeting.) We discussed what sort of businesses would be interested in the project, and we came up with things like pastry stores, jewelry stores, singles event programs, and dating sites. During the meeting, Allison and Jacy suggested I should hold a launch party at the start of the donation war. It sounded ideal, but it also sounded like another thing that I had no idea how to accomplish.

The meeting lasted barely an hour, and then the women of the Kiss Crew had to depart for other appointments. We had only danced around the topics of practical considerations, the _how-to's_ and _when's_ that were my main concerns. Still, I had every intention of digging into the nitty gritty details at the next meeting. I wasn't satisfied as I left that meeting, but I left with the belief that we could get more accomplished the next time.

* * *

As I mentioned to the Kiss Crew at the meeting, I had narrowed down my charity choices to two top picks based on my fact finding. I decided to make contact with both of them to get more information about their practices. I wanted specifics about how they used the donation money they received, beyond the details that I could find on their websites.

I contacted the first charity, which I'll call For the Love of Pete (FLOP), via an email form on its website. I received a generic reply that didn't give me any new information — the reply email merely pointed me back to a web page that I'd already seen.

I had to stop being wishy-washy. The email didn't get me results, so I resolved to call both charities.

"Can you tell me more about how you use your program dollars? How do you divide the money between research and patient support?"

I asked these questions of both charities. However, neither of the people I spoke to had answers, which surprised me. I'd expected them to be prepared for questions about their use of donation money because I'd assumed such questions were common.

I spoke to a woman at FLOP first, explaining briefly that I was planning a charitable project and wanted answers to the aforementioned questions. The woman told me she had to check with somebody higher up. Then, when she got back to me, she explained that FLOP couldn't give out that information.

Disappointing. Come on, shouldn't that be standard info?

When I called the next charity, which I'll call Cancer Fighters (CF), I received the same puzzlement at my request. The man on the phone asked why I wanted to know. Without going into any great detail, I explained my reasons, telling him that I had a project, Kiss Chronicles, and I was considering CF as a possible beneficiary. The man on the phone told me that somebody would get back to me. He asked for my email address and telephone number, and I gave them to him. I didn't hear back right away, but I held out hope that I would get more information from CF than FLOP.

I didn't just get information. I received an email from the development officer of special events. Based on only the sparsest of information I'd given the man over the telephone, the development officer had looked into Kiss Chronicles and checked out my blog to see what it was about. In the development officer's email, she told me some personalized details about Cancer Fighters, and she invited me to give her a call to discuss the matter further.

You can probably guess which charity impressed me more.

During the call, the special events officer told me that I would need to submit an application to get approval for my event, and she assured me that I could contact her and apply whenever I was ready. When the call ended, I knew I wanted to work with CF.

* * *

A student from the University of Indianapolis newspaper contacted me in early November. She had been assigned to report on Kiss Chronicles. I thought I'd be interviewed by the original student with whom I'd spoken after the theatre meeting, but the story had switched hands.

This unexpected student and I set a date, and I drove down to the university so we could conduct the interview in person. The interview went smoothly — I discovered that this student had been at the theatre meeting when I'd spoken about the project a few weeks prior, so she already had a basic understanding of the project.

We conducted the interview in just half an hour, and I thanked the reporter and asked her whether she could let me know when the article was published. She agreed, and I went home.

* * *

On November 13th, I received a message from Allison of the Kiss Crew, and she included the other members in the message. She put out a call to fire everyone up and get the makeover planned.

Wait, the makeover? We weren't ready for the makeover. We needed a planning meeting more than a makeover. However, I went along with the discussion, figuring that as long as I could get the ladies into the same physical space, we could talk and plan during the makeover process.

However, in the email thread, Jacy started raising practical questions, and her thoughts reflected my own confusion. She asked for details such as, "Are we doing the makeover for a specific photo shoot?" She raised additional valid questions about what the makeover would accomplish.

We needed a better plan, so I followed Jacy's queries with my own. I asked about the how, what, and where, as well as who would be photographing because we had no photographer involved at that time.

Allison replied that she had a friend in mind, an amateur photographer. Her friend, like me, had lost her father to cancer. Allison said she would contact her about taking some shots.

As the Kiss Crew and I tried to get organized, I sent Michelle of _Real Scene TV_ a brief message on November 14. The note informed her about where things stood in the preparation stage, and that I hoped to get things organized soon. Michelle responded that there was no rush. She had the next several months for _Real Scene TV_ already fully planned and scheduled, and no new unplanned content could be scheduled to air until March.

Well, shit. We could still involve _Real Scene TV_ in the makeover, but whatever Michelle's crew filmed would remain on hold for months. Granted, nothing on my end seemed to be moving very fast anyway.

It didn't matter in the long run, though. The discussion thread with the Kiss Crew about the makeover faltered and ended after I raised my questions regarding how it would work. I waited for replies, but I received nothing further. I could have brought it up again and requested the answers I sought, but recent experiences had taught me that pressing for reluctant answers ended badly for me. I chose, at that time, to let it go rather than push in desperation.

* * *

Through Twitter, I managed to reconnect with someone I hadn't seen in a while, my sensei for a Japanese language course I'd taken in 2009. In case you're wondering, _sensei_ means _master_ or _teacher_ in Japanese, so I'll refer to him here as Sensei. He was American, but he had lived and worked in Japan for many years before returning to the states.

After we exchanged several tweets, Sensei invited me to join a marketing class he would soon be teaching. I decided not to sign up for two reasons: The class occurred during my work hours, and I didn't have the budget for it. I couldn't justify pouring chunks of money into the project when I couldn't be sure how much of a return, if any, I'd be able to get at the end. If I spent a hypothetical $100 on preparation and then managed to raise only $100 for charity with the final event, I might just as well have donated my original $100 and called it a day.

Sensei replied that he understood my reasons, and he suggested a couple of alternatives. He suggested I try the Affiliate Summit Meetup in Indianapolis, which he participated in and which held free monthly meetings. He told me the next meeting would happen at the end of November, after Thanksgiving. He explained that the local affiliate marketers gathered and shared news and suggestions for more effective marketing and website growth. Sensei also suggested that I check out a small business fair in mid-November.

The business fair cost only a few dollars to get into, so I figured I'd give it a shot. I went with the intention of being open minded, putting away my hesitation for the evening, and learning whatever I could. I'd never been to an event like that before. As soon as I arrived, I went to a lecture on affiliate marketing, where I knew I could find Sensei. When in doubt, find a familiar face.

I sat in on that lecture and then another brief one on social media marketing for small businesses. Then I explored the main room of the fair, where local businesses had set up information booths. Sensei introduced me to several of his acquaintances. I spoke with a few people about the possibility of hosting giveaways for their products on my blog. I talked with a couple of others to get feedback and ideas for Kiss Chronicles.

As the business fair concluded and the businessmen and -women packed boxes with leftover brochures, Sensei suggested that we could get a late dinner at a nearby deli. By that time, I felt both energized and worn out, which is a confusing state of being. Dinner and discussion sounded like a perfect way to wind down.

Not long after we sat down to eat, he looked across the table at me and asked, "Have you been eating right? You look like you've lost weight."

Wow, he busted me right away.

"I've lost a little," I admitted. However, I pushed the conversation along. I had already consciously started making an effort to fix my eating habits, which had gotten sloppy over the summer. The stress and confusion I'd been experiencing had dulled my appetite. I'd already recognized the problem and begun working on it, so I wanted to avoid the topic. I agreed that I'd do better to eat healthier.

I asked Sensei how he had been lately, and we discussed some of his recent experiences. After a while, the subject came around to Kiss Chronicles. I told him the events in detail from the start, and I described the troubles I'd been having, about what had happened with BS Ads and then Amelia and how I couldn't seem to get the project moving. I told him how I was struggling to bring the Kiss Crew together. He listened attentively and gave me his thoughts.

"You need to make some real, genuine connections with people," he said.

I knew truth when I heard it, but accomplishing that task had proven difficult.

"You're worth connecting to," he insisted.

Given everything that I'd experienced so far, I didn't feel like I was worth connecting to, and hearing those words burned as if somebody had smacked my face with a frying pan straight off the oven. Sensei meant for his words to make me feel better, but they only brought my insecurity into startling focus: I felt as though I wasn't worth keeping around, that I was just a diverting piece of fluff, fun to play with for a while and easy to discard. I lacked the substance, the core strength, to succeed at my project on my own. Who would want to connect with a person who can't follow through on her promises?

"You can't let your project overwhelm you," he said.

_Way_ too late for that. I'd also heard this statement from other people, and I'd been saying it to myself. It didn't help coming from them or me, either. Telling me that was about as effective as telling a house painter not to get any spots on his clothes and then sending him off to work. The words were true, because someone who's overwhelmed can't function effectively, but I didn't know how I could make myself feel confident again.

At the end of the meal, I thanked Sensei for his support. He had told me things I needed to hear, important words that would stick with me.

As I drove home, emotional exhaustion weighed me down. The words "you're worth connecting to" echoed in my mind and tore at me. Was I, really? I had intense doubts about that. If I were, wouldn't I have gotten my kiss years ago? I couldn't shake the self-doubt and downward thinking. At one point, I just clutched at the steering wheel and screamed so hard that the sound raked painfully through my throat.

It didn't solve any problems, but it sure felt good to let everything out.

* * *

A few days after the business fair, I had a vivid dream about Amelia. The dream began in a clothing store, and it was packed so full with merchandise that I had to squeeze myself between clothing racks to move around. I spotted Amelia in the store. I tried to avoid her at first, but then I approached her, and she showed me a picture of her new baby brother. In the way of dreams, a disconnect happened, and suddenly Amelia and I were outside the store, standing on an empty sidewalk.

In my dream, I screamed at her at the top of my lungs. I screamed as loud and hard as I had in real life when I'd driven home from the business fair.

" _How could you do this to me? How could you leave me alone to deal with this?"_

She had no response, so I kept screaming, and the dream ended there.

Most of the time, I find dreams difficult to interpret. Every now and then, though, they're as obvious as the lips on my face. I had no trouble interpreting that dream. The cluttered store represented my mind, my thought processes filled with a jumble of ideas. It also represented the various efforts I was making for the sake of the project. Amelia's new little brother, which was purely an invention of the dream, represented the reasons she had quit, as well as her new private design venture, which she had begun just prior to quitting. Amelia herself represented both the person Amelia as well as other people I'd encountered and the many disappointments I'd faced. Perhaps she even represented my own insecurities. As for the screaming, well, that didn't need any interpretation. I needed to yell at someone, but in real life, I had no valid target.

I've heard, also, that every person in dreams is a part or a small reflection of the dreamer. So, in some ways, I was screaming at myself. How could I have done this and put myself in this position?

Even after interpreting the dream, I didn't feel any better. It didn't resolve any of the contemptible emotions I experienced, the anger and disappointment that I felt whenever I thought of Amelia . . . or the loathing I had for myself because I harbored those feelings toward a friend.

* * *

Right from the start of Kiss Chronicles, people suggested that I write a book. The suggestion came from friends and strangers alike. One of the people I talked with at the business fair suggested that I write a book made up of other people's kiss stories. She saw it as a potential promotional tool.

Just a couple of days after the business fair and the horrible dream, I started writing. I decided that I could write something short, a non-fiction summary of the project, and use it as promotional material. I figured I could either use it to convince a charity to work with Kiss Chronicles, or I could sell it for small donations, which I could use to get the project off the ground. I planned for the book to be four or five chapters, with roughly forty pages of text. I intended to write fast, edit fast, and have a finished and useful product in a matter of two or three months.

I wrote a table of contents and got to work. Writing the book felt fantastic. Whenever I sat down and put my thoughts down on the blank page, it felt as though a rush of cool water came and washed away all the muck clouding my head. When writing, I actually accomplished something — I wasn't just spinning my wheels.

The words danced from my fingertips onto the computer screen with hardly any effort. I soon had two rough chapters completed.

* * *

I received my printed business cards in the mail just before Thanksgiving, but I had no use for them. I also got sick at that time. The stress and worry finally caught up with me. What should have been a normal head cold lingered for weeks. I slowed down, allowed myself to stop the frenetic activity of following multiple paths for the sake of the project. I even paused in my blogging activities.

As I coughed and snuffled, as I gave myself the rest my body demanded, I took an honest look at my situation at long last.

In the preceding two months, I'd accomplished nothing significant. I had gotten the Kiss Crew together for only two meetings, and the interview at the university had yet to come to fruition. The opportunity to work with _Real Scene TV_ drifted further and further out of reach as the producers continued to film and finalize more episodes.

On November 29th, as I nursed my cold and took stock of my situation, I received an email from yet another reporter for the University of Indianapolis student newspaper. Apparently, the reporter who had conducted the interview with me had never turned in the article, and it had been due two weeks prior. This new contact asked whether she could interview me over the phone. I agreed, and we set up the call. As we talked, I could tell from her questions that she didn't know what to ask — she hadn't taken even a glance at the website and likely hadn't had any time to do so. I felt, by the end of the phone call, that the interview had been a loss. Whether or not the article ever even printed, I don't know. Maybe the person who interviewed me over the phone finished it, or maybe she didn't. I never received further contact, and I couldn't find the energy to care.

* * *

In the weeks following Thanksgiving, I did very little. The only effort I made for the project during that time was attending the Affiliate Summit Meetup that Sensei had suggested. I received useful suggestions for the blog, but some of the marketing discussion went over my head.

Mostly, for those post-holiday weeks, I sat at home with my cold and collected my thoughts. I faced the truth, and I didn't like what I saw.

I had involved the Kiss Crew members at a busy time for them. However, when I became honest with myself, I didn't believe I could ever catch them at a time when they wouldn't be busy. I expected that even after the holidays ended and the new year began, I wouldn't be able to get them together for anything other than brief meetings with long intervals between. If we were racing against snails, the snails would win.

I had to give up on their involvement.

Without the Kiss Crew, I had nothing to offer Michelle for _Real Scene TV._ She had suggested, at the start, that she could track the events of Kiss Chronicles as it happened, but it would be hard for her to track progress when all the progress went in the wrong direction. Tom, the friend who put me in touch with Michelle to begin with, suggested that I could talk to Michelle about my situation, perhaps work with _Real Scene TV_ to produce Kiss Chronicles. However, I had nothing to offer. I had empty hands and a head full of emotional chaos. Plus, it sounded like another wild goose chase to me because Michelle was busier than BS Ads, Amelia, and the Kiss Crew combined. Top that off with the fact that _Real Scene TV_ episodes had already been scheduled for several months in advance, and I didn't consider that a viable option.

I didn't want to connect with another possibility, _any_ possibility, that could leave me waiting, hanging for months, only to discover that I'd run into another dead end. I'd had enough of dead ends.

What then, did I have left? I'm not someone with significant personal connections. I don't have media savvy or a special talent for design. I'm not a business person or a marketer. I can learn new tricks, but I needed so many new tricks that I felt useless. I could spend a year or more just learning what I needed to know in order to begin the project all over again.

I didn't want to take that path because it had no clear end to it. I needed to know my destination.

If I wanted to accomplish the donation war and benefit a cancer-related charity, I required help. However, at that point, the thought of asking for help and trusting others, people who might or might not come through for me, left me nauseated and jittery.

From the start, I never intended to attempt Kiss Chronicles alone. However, now I was alone, and the future looked hopeless. I felt angrier and more resentful of Amelia than ever, and I hated myself for it. I couldn't stand to have those conflicting emotions swirling inside of me. I needed those feelings to stop.

During those first couple of weeks of December, I saw myself sinking. The project had turned into a dead weight strapped to my feet as I struggled to tread water.

However, I refused to walk away. How could I give up the project? I'd made a promise to myself and to everyone I'd come in contact with that I would raise money for charity. I couldn't go back on my word. Well, technically speaking, I could, but I refused to consider that an option. I considered it a matter of honor.

I was traveling down a spiraled path to a depressive funk. I didn't get all the way to Funkville, though. I saw myself going in that direction, but I took an alternative route. I needed something very small and simple to change course. I needed someone (in that case, two someones) to listen to me. I had two long conversations with two very good friends, Tegan and Beth, and they let me talk until I ran out of words. They both said they wished they could help more and that they wished they knew how to fix it even though they couldn't. But they listened. It was what I needed, and it was enough.

Most important of all, Beth helped me come to terms with my negative feelings toward Amelia. She explained it to me without any of the condemnation I'd been heaping upon myself.

"As long as you continue feeling overwhelmed, you're going to continue to be angry at Amelia," she said. "You can't let it go because you're still in the process of being hurt. It's okay. I get it."

Well, damn, why didn't I figure that out sooner?

Beth encouraged me to take a break on the project but not give up just yet, and to keep working on writing the book because it made me happy.

I decided I needed to follow the healthiest road, the best option I had left. I resolved to shelve the original project that would end with a kiss. I cut that stone free and let it sink without me attached. But I didn't give up on my mission for charity. I decided to expand the book and turn it into the project, to give it my full focus. This book became my means of raising money to support cancer research and patients.

It was the second-best decision of my life. What was my first-best decision? I drove home in the middle of the night on January 5, 2009 to see my dad, rather than waiting to drive home the next morning.

I didn't fully accept the change of course all at once. It happened slowly, over the Christmas season. At the start of the new year, I made an announcement on the blog about my decision. Not long after that, I emailed the Kiss Crew members and informed them of the decision as well. I received agreement from Allison and Erica about the change, and they sent me well wishes — I knew that I'd made the right decision about not pressuring them for their time and participation.

As I accepted the change of course, the worries that had eaten at me dissipated one by one. The stress and helplessness that had weighed me down no longer troubled me. I felt the lingering resentment toward Amelia begin to lift from my shoulders. I got in touch with friends and acquaintances again because I had ignored my social life for much too long.

Grace is worth the effort it takes to achieve.

* * *

I know I don't look too great in all this. I had a beautiful idea, the possibility of doing something huge and interesting and fun, and I let it slide through my fingers like sand. I made plenty of mistakes.

I'm not claiming to be a super-strong individual. I'm not someone who always takes punches and rolls with them. If you want to read about somebody like that, you'll have to pick up another book. I'm someone who takes a few punches and then asks for an ice pack.

As I see it, I'm more deserving of criticism than any sort of sympathy.

"You shouldn't have even started the project if you weren't willing to do x, y, and z."

"Why didn't you keep going? Sure, you ran into trouble, but you can't let those things stop you."

"You needed to plan things out more carefully."

"It's your own fault. You made a big deal out of nothing."

"If you'd just had more confidence, you could have done it."

Believe me, I've thought of the preceding statements and many more. But do you want to know what I'm proud of despite that? I never gave up. Whenever I realized "I can't do it _this_ way," my thoughts always turned next to "So maybe I can do it _that_ way."

Maybe I screwed up, but being a stubborn cuss still paid off in the end. You're reading this book, aren't you?

### Chapter 12

Will Write for Charity

The girl kept the phoenix quill, but she continued searching for a Special Kiss. When at long last she grew too weary to continue her quest alone, she journeyed home with a heavy heart.

Upon her return home, she felt exhausted, and she slept for a full day. However, as soon as she woke, she thought of the wizard's gift and pulled it out. She gathered paper and ink at a small writing desk. Then the girl began writing with the phoenix quill, and words flowed onto the pages as if summoned by magic. She laughed with delight and wrote night and day, staining her fingers with ink.

Writers have a special sort of magic: They can create something out of nothing. Even though I sat amidst the smoldering remains of the project, I still had a way to create something. The only thing left for me to do, the only thing I _could_ do, was write my story.

I'd love to tell you that right after I decided to give the book the starring role of the project, I dedicated myself night and day to churning out chapters. I wish I could tell you how I worked without sleep and other nonessentials because inspiration smacked me upside the head so hard that I could barely step away from my keyboard.

The truth is that I didn't write a single word for weeks.

As Christmas and New Year's Day came and went, leaving me in the dark and cold of January, 2012, I found myself avoiding the empty chapters that needed to be written. The book, which had so invigorated me only weeks before, became a thing I avoided. I did anything but write. I played games, spent time with friends, or went out to movies.

Each day I would say to myself, "Self, you're going to write tonight." Then I'd open a blank document, stare at it for a while, and run away screaming.

At first, I couldn't figure out what my problem was. I don't put much stock in the concept of writer's block. I don't believe that there's some mythical wall that appears or disappears in a writer's brain of its own accord. If a writer really, truly wants to write, nothing will stop her from penning rows of pesky, slippery words. It's more accurate to say that, instead of believing in writer's block, I believe that a writer says she wants to write but doesn't truly want to for whatever reason.

So, after persistently not writing for three straight weeks, I asked myself the key question:

"Why don't I want to write?"

Writing the book had been fun once, so my avoidance had nothing to do with any dislike for the work. I'd written two chapters already. They'd tumbled fast and sloppy from my fingertips. Writing them had felt cathartic, pleasant, even relieving. At that time, I'd known that even though other things were going so poorly for Kiss Chronicles, the book could help prop me back up. At least if the book didn't go well it wouldn't mean the demise of the whole project —

Oh. OH! Okay, that made sense.

I had changed the circumstances of the book, increasing its importance to a critical level. At first, the book had been an added leg propping up a collapsing table, but then it became the table itself. I wouldn't be using the book for a promotional tool leading to the end of the project. The book would _be_ the end of the project. I had to take my writing more seriously, and if it turned out to be no good, what recourse would I have? Everything I'd worked for depended on my writing, and I'd gotten intimidated without even realizing it.

What I wrote suddenly mattered, and that scared me witless.

You'd think that my words mattering would give me a positive boost, wouldn't you? Please keep in mind that I never claim I make sense. In fact, I usually claim the opposite.

One other factor also contributed to my hesitation: Expanding the book meant that I would have to put more personal history into it. I intended to complete it and then sell it for a donation to a cancer charity, but to make it worth the purchase price I needed to double or triple the page count I'd intended. That meant pulling out more stories, including those perhaps better off buried, and I needed to tell the whole story of how I repeatedly failed to make the original project work. I had to tell you about the times I was rotten or low as well as the times I felt like I had the whole world on my side. The best way to tell those stories would be to expose myself in all of my neurotic, flawed, human glory.

As a result, I subconsciously tried to give myself a final chance to back out before committing words to the page.

I couldn't give myself that out, though. I had diagnosed the writing problem, so I needed to find a cure for the ill. I needed to find it quickly, too. As January slipped away, I knew I was in danger of never returning to the book. If I didn't return to the book, the project would end there. I didn't want that.

I found a cure, and the cure was NaNoWriMo.

In case you don't know anything about NaNoWriMo, let me summarize it for you: NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. Every November, writers around the world engage in a brain-melting, finger-cramping marathon to write 50,000 words by the end of the month. Basically, they take on the challenge to write a novel in 30 days. Furthermore, editing during NaNoWriMo is frowned upon.

I knew several writers who had participated in the event, but I'd never done it. The idea of writing a minimum of words each day had never appealed to me. In general, I view writing as weaving words to create a sensation, a particular texture, as well as to communicate a story, so when I heard other writers talking about word counts and their accomplishments, the discussions left me perplexed.

That, I'm sure, has a lot to do with the way I relate to books. Even if the details of a book fade from my memory and I can no longer remember the character names or particular scenes or my favorite lines, I can still recall the sensation or taste I received from the reading experience. Some books have a rough texture, like a paper grocery bag, which leaves me feeling anxious in a good way. Sometimes a book feels like a warm, comforting sweater. Fantasy books usually leave a smooth chocolate aftertaste. A good sci-fi might feel like cold grass on my feet, stimulating my brain in an unexpected way. A romance might feel like taking a cold drink of water — it's lacking in calories and substance but is still refreshing. Some books are cashmere, some are marshmallows, some are tree bark.

What is the value of words if they don't create the sensation the writer intends?

But in truth, NaNoWriMo isn't designed to produce a finished, polished work. It's designed to get storytellers to write, write, and write some more. It's 90% discipline and 10% self-inflicted torment.

I needed exactly that — well, the self-discipline, not the torment. I needed to think less about whether I could manage to tell the story well and just tell the story. Unfortunately, I couldn't do anything to modify the calendar year and bring November closer to January. I could, however, apply the critical principles to suit my needs. I imagined that I could turn February into a mini-NaNoWriMo by writing at least 1,000 words each day. Because 2012 was a leap year with a longer February, I would write a minimum of 29,000 words by the end of the month.

The end of January neared. I still failed to write. February 1st would be the deciding day, the day that would determine whether the book made the journey from my head to the page or withered from inattention.

February 1st came. I sat at my computer and wrote. The words fell onto the page, and I met my goal for the day without breaking a sweat. That day, my situation changed for the better. As soon as I began writing, I remembered the enjoyment that I'd experienced when I first started the book. Days passed, and each evening saw me at my computer, meeting my goals.

I expected to falter and miss a day of writing at some point during the month. I planned to forgive myself when that day came, but I never had to. By the end of the month, I achieved a total of nearly 31,000 words, and I had only a little more to write to complete the first draft.

So, the next step was getting the book published for charity, right?

Wrong. The next step for my written work was putting the words through the wringer and weeding out the weaknesses. Ah, the process of editing. Have I mentioned that I'm a copy editor by trade? No? I am. I love editing. It's simultaneously easier and more difficult than writing. Both tasks require artistry, but the artistic talent of the editor is to make her own skill invisible behind the writer's skill. Editors, you might say, are word ninjas.

Yes, I am a ninja.

However, when revising their own manuscripts, writers develop what I like to call "word blindness," an inability to see flaws and typos. Even ninja editors can fall prey to word blindness when they write, so I needed a little help from my friends.

In March, I began submitting the book, chapter by chapter, to a weekly writing critique group that I had belonged to for years. The members of the group, most of them trusted friends, had been supportive of the project from the beginning. They helped me see my work from different perspectives. From grammar gaffes to logic mistakes to through-line issues, they identified problems that needed solutions.

Thereafter followed months of editing, critiquing, and more editing.

For the most part, the critiques I received varied . . . except for one. (Okay, two, but I don't particularly feel like talking about my adverb addiction.) I had a bad habit that the members of my writing group called me out on time and again. Here's the gist of how that went:

"Here, you're basically telling the readers that they don't have to read this part," they told me. "And over here, you're making self-deprecating statements about the writing. It's interesting, though, so you shouldn't do that."

I looked at the lines in question. "Oh, I thought that would be funny, or they could actually skip parts if they wanted. It didn't work?"

"Nope. Also, you should definitely change the line where you're outright apologizing to the readers for what they have to read. Stop that."

"But can't I just —"

"NO!"

"Fine! Geez."

I'd like to take this moment to apologize that my apologies have been edited out.

Of course, I knew these critiques were sound. I proceeded to make a snip here and a clip there. The group members, clever people that they are, offered other, bigger critiques as well. I rewrote chunks or added entirely new scenes to fill in the holes that I had created during the rush of my mini-NaNoWriMo.

At the end of June, I had a clean second draft. I wasn't satisfied with only one round of revision, though, so I sent the second draft to three trusted people to solicit their impressions and critiques as well. After I received their responses, I completed a second, lighter round of editing. By the beginning of August, I had my third draft.

* * *

At one point during the book-writing time period, I had a surprising discussion with an acquaintance regarding my plans for the finished book.

"So what you're going to do is give all of the proceeds from the book to charity?" he asked.

"Exactly. Sort of," I replied. "I need to get the charity to work with me on that, though, because I need the funds to go directly to the charity and not me. If the money for purchasing the book comes to me first, that would mean I'm tax liable for it as income. I want to avoid that."

"And you have a charity in mind?"

I did, so I described it to him. However, the expression on his face told me that something about my plan troubled him.

At last, he asked, "I know you're putting a lot of time into this, but what are you getting out of it?"

I didn't know quite how to answer him. "My project will be complete, and the book sales will benefit a cause that I care about." What more was I missing?

"Have you considered dividing the profits and donating a portion to the charity?" he asked. "I'm concerned that you're not thinking about the fact that, by doing things the way you plan, you're not going to get much for all the work you've done. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for charity and doing good, but by dividing the profits, you could set aside some money for a rainy day or your next project."

I had trouble processing his suggestion. "That's never been the goal, though. The goal from the start has always been that all of the profit would go to charity."

I had some difficulty making sense of his input, so he and I talked at cross purposes for a little while.

Finally, he said, "When the book comes out, it'll probably go one of two ways. What happens if it just doesn't go very far?"

I knew he described the more likely scenario, but I hadn't thought about the question so directly before. I needed to face it and find the honest answer. "Then I'll do my best, and at least my friends and family and a few others will buy it and read it. I'll have to be satisfied with that."

He nodded slowly. "Okay, and what if it goes the other way? What if it turns into an unexpected seller and lots of people start buying it?"

I couldn't have wished for anything more. "It won't happen."

He shook his head. I'd missed his point. "But if it does, won't you regret, even a bit, that you didn't hold on to some of the profits?"

I thought about his question for only a moment. "No, I won't." I paused and thought for another moment before explaining further. "If that happened, it would be because people fell in love with the idea that the book was benefitting cancer research, not because of me. The book would never achieve that kind of reach otherwise, so there'd be nothing for me to regret. Besides, if it did get as big as that, I'm sure some sort of benefit other than money, maybe some kind of opportunity, would come up naturally. So, yeah. I wouldn't regret it."

He gave me a thoughtful look and nodded, accepting my answer, and our discussion moved on.

So, in case you wondered whether I ever considered publishing Kiss Chronicles for personal profit, there's your answer. I did for all of 3.5 seconds, and the concept of profiting had to flash in neon lights in front of my face before the possibility entered my mind.

Long after the conversation, my acquaintance's question about regret stayed with me. A few times, I thought to myself, _Wouldn't it be great if I ended up regretting donating the whole thing to charity? I wouldn't be able to regret it unless the book made a whole lot of money for cancer patients and research._

I had difficulty imagining a number that would make me regret it, but I had fun daydreaming.

* * *

I received another piece of advice from an old, familiar source. Do you remember Sean from Chapter 6? I told you I'd stayed in touch with him. He's a good friend, one worth keeping.

I contacted him to let him know about my plans for the book, and although hearing about Chapter 6 didn't exactly tickle his fancy, he offered his support because he understood how important it was to me. Furthermore, I ended up explaining the entire Kiss Chronicles situation to him. After I caught him up on the tale, he gave me a singularly valuable piece of advice:

"I really, really think you should get in touch with Amelia."

If he had said that to me six, three, or even two months prior, I wouldn't have listened to him. Before writing and editing the book, I hadn't been ready to hear it, but it was on my mind, nagging at me. At the time Sean said those words, though, I was ready to listen.

"I'm not telling you this for her sake," Sean explained. "I don't know her. You, though, you're my friend, and I think you need to do this for your own sake. Once this book is out, you can't undo it. You won't get another chance."

Coming from Sean, the words were especially poignant.

Missed opportunities cannot be reclaimed. Sean made a valuable point: I needed to see whether I could make an opportunity to reconcile. I missed Amelia, and the writing process had purged the vestiges of my anger, leaving me in a place where I could finally attempt to rebuild. Nothing had been finalized. The end of the story could be rewritten, perhaps even with the ending that I wished for, the one in which I got my friend back.

I had to decide how to get in touch. I could have called or even just shown up on her doorstep, but those options seemed to be too pushy and too unexpected. We hadn't had any contact for over half a year.

So I scraped together my courage and sent Amelia an email — I owed her one anyway because I had never replied to the email she sent me when she quit the project. I explained myself to her as best I could, confessing that I'd been angry at both her and myself and describing the book. I closed by telling her that she was important to me.

I held onto hope for weeks, but I never received a reply. I didn't regret the attempt, though. At the very least, I knew I could move forward without regretting that I never tried to contact her.

* * *

I had no loose ends or regrets to hold me back, and I had the third clean draft of the book. I needed just one more ingredient before I could finally cook up my fundraiser: the charity.

On August 15, after rewriting and revising my message four or five times, I sent an email to the contact that I'd made at the Cancer Fighters charity so many months prior. The very next day, I heard back from a new contact, another special events coordinator. I'll call her Eloise.

Eloise and I traded emails in rapid-fire succession those first few days. I explained the basic concept of how I wanted to raise money for CF — by selling my book online at $5 a pop, with all of the proceeds going directly to the charity. She sent me an electronic application to fill out so that she could get a better understanding of my fundraiser. A couple of questions on the form proved difficult to fill in, mostly in regards to estimates of how much money I could hope to raise, but she assured me that she wanted a general idea of how the project would work and that she could answer any questions. She told me not to worry if I left some empty spots on the form, so I completed it and returned it to her on August 17.

At this point in the story, I'd love to be able to throw in an invigorating, high-speed car chase, one that could get your blood pumping and leave you cheering at the end. Instead, what followed more closely resembled an attempt at training snails for a marathon.

After some discussion with another contact at Cancer Fighters, Eloise and I discovered a problem with my plan, which involved self-publishing through another site. Doing so would be out of the question due to the fundraising policies held by CF. The policies were strict, and I couldn't use a self-publishing site because the site would profit from each sale. The only way to donate the full revenue would be to publish the book _completely_ independently. I had to give that problem some thought — it would mean two big sacrifices because I wouldn't be able to sell any printed copies of the book and, more important, I would lack the support features and connectivity that a self-publishing site provides to authors. Eloise explained that if I wanted to use a self-publishing site, I would have to commit to donating only a portion of the sales to the charity rather than the full revenue. After weighing the sacrifices, I decided to stick with my plan, with all of the proceeds going to CF, even though it meant I had to meet the tight restrictions. I informed Eloise of my decision.

Commence long weeks of agonized waiting.

I sent persistent emails to Eloise, asking for updates (read: I nagged her), but for a long time, very little progress happened. At Eloise's request, I resubmitted my application at the end of September. Eloise did what she could from her end, trying to get approval for my project, and I got some extra exercise from pacing.

I tried to keep busy, though I wasn't sure what to do with myself. My social media presence needed sprucing up, so I rediscovered the BlogHer network and found ways to connect with other bloggers, and I spent more time playing around with Twitter. The book needed a cover, so I contacted my friend, Hamster, and asked her to design it. She and I sent messages back and forth to figure out the look and feel of it. Mostly, though, I twiddled my thumbs and checked my email for news from CF.

As I watched the weeks creeping away from me like frightened cats, I found myself facing familiar and unwelcome enemies . . . time and doubt. Because I was no longer writing and editing, I had time to consider my actions and wonder whether I should go through with publishing the book. What was the point of it? Had my goal become, perhaps, merely an exercise in vanity that would be best hidden rather than displayed? Maybe, rather than the book being the crown jewel of the project, it would be nothing but a dull lump of coal. I didn't want or need those thoughts circling in my head, but the more time I had to ponder, the more they multiplied.

In mid-October, after I'd mentioned to Eloise for a second time that I could send her some writing samples from the book, she invited me to send them. With a large helping of trepidation, I dusted off the Introduction and Chapter 9 and sent them to her.

The next day, I received a heartfelt reply from Eloise. She had already read the text I sent, and she recommitted to fighting to get my application and book approved as a fundraiser. A few days later, she laid out the three possible roads for handling the book as a fundraiser through Cancer Fighters:

* For various reasons all having to do with red tape, to work directly with CF for a book sale I would need to agree to raise $25,000 dollars. (Ouch.)

* I could use a third-party website to fundraise. I would need to find a site that could collect payment made directly to CF and then also provide the donator with an option to download the ebook.

* I could state that the profits would go to cancer care and research without specifying the charity by name, and then I could proceed to self-publish the book through whatever means I had available. (Basically, I could just promise the readers that I would donate all proceeds to an unnamed charity.)

The first option I had to ignore completely. A total like that was out of my reach. If I could fundraise even a few thousand dollars from my book sales, I would consider myself extraordinarily fortunate.

The third option I also had to reject. I required transparency for the sale to work. The readers (you included), I felt, needed and deserved to know exactly where their money went. I knew that if all I could say about the donation was a generic statement that it would go to cancer care and research, it would look suspicious. If I were a consumer, a setup like that would smell like a scam.

Only the second option held any hope for me.

I researched dozens of fundraising sites. I'd never realized so many existed. I found Causes, Crowdrise, FirstGiving, Razoo, and many more. I discovered that each of the sites took just a small fee per donation transaction, but they gave individuals the ability to fundraise online and harness social media to help. However, as I explored each site, I grew more desperate because none of them could meet my particular need — none would allow for a download upon receipt of a donation. I asked other people, including a reliable contact at the BlogHer network, whether they knew of a third-party site that could work, but no one knew of any possibilities.

After a couple of days of searching, I checked in with Eloise to see whether she had any insight about the sites. She knew of only one that could even come close, MissionFish, but it was set up as an auction fundraiser, so only one item could be sold.

I had, once again, run out of options. At the same time, a new idea, a new possibility, began to form in my mind. I brewed a backup plan. I would not go to another charity. Oh, I could have done so. I could have continued to contact charity after charity, attempting to find one that would work with me and approve my fundraiser, but when I considered that option, I saw long months or even years of disappointment stretching out before me. I didn't have the strength or the patience to travel that road. I predicted that the double weights of wasted time and accumulated disappointment would crush my will to keep fighting. No, a different plan took shape in my mind.

Meanwhile, my endeavors to convince Cancer Fighters to work with me were drawing to a close. I expected to receive an email rejecting my application at any time, but it didn't come. Considering what little I knew of Eloise, how kind she was and her commitment, I wondered if she simply couldn't bear to send me the email.

On November 1st, after two and a half months of communicating with Cancer Fighters, I contacted Eloise to withdraw my application. She sent me a long reply, expressing her regrets. I'd been right — she knew we had gotten tangled in rules and regulations, but she had so wanted to see the project through that she hadn't been willing to say "no." I'm glad that I made the decision to withdraw, for her sanity and mine. We'd been driving ourselves batty trying to fit a square peg into a round hole. Although I wasn't sad to leave CF behind, I wished I could have worked further with Eloise.

I still hadn't found the charity that fit. However, during my research of fundraising sites, I came to an unexpected conclusion: I didn't need a charity to fit me at all. I'd had enough of failure, red tape, and disappointment in the past year and a half. No more playing Miss Goody-Goody and trying to follow procedures and rules and wait on someone to finally, finally tell me "yes" and work with me.

I needed to _cheat._

I needed to fundraise first and ask questions later. Above all else, I needed to stop waiting for permission.

That's when I made the final decision: I would give the book away as a free ebook, set up a third-party donation site to a cancer charity, and interconnect the two. I would still make the ebook a fundraiser, but I would leave the donations up to the honor system.

Upon making that decision, I felt clearer, relieved. I could, at long last, see my final destination — I had found a way to finish the project completely independent of anyone else. I would not have to hear anyone tell me "no" again. Of course, completing the project in that way required sacrifices, but none were deal breakers.

One of the biggest downsides was that I would essentially turn this book, which had become my baby, into what could be seen as a pamphlet for the fundraising site. _Ick, ptooey!_ My baby had grown into so much more than a mere pamphlet. I wanted to treat my book with more dignity than that. Still, I found myself willing to let go of that ideal in order to achieve another. Considering some of the personal stories that I've included in the book, dignity was probably out of the question from the beginning anyway.

Also, I would have to deal with the "free ebook" stigma. The simple truth is that free ebooks, for various reasons, don't receive the same respect that ebooks and books for sale do. I would have to fight to earn respect — nothing new there.

The third downside: To preserve Cancer Fighter's anonymity, I needed to pick another charity to benefit from my final plan. The charity name would be visible to the public from the third-party fundraising site, so I needed a charity with which I'd had no contact and which wouldn't end up in this story.

The final downside, if you choose to see it as such, is trusting to the honor system. Instead of a direct donation in exchange for the book, I'm giving away the book and suggesting a donation but leaving it to your discretion.

It's possible that I'm being naïve and too trusting again. I've repeatedly seen that people don't always come through for me. But I've also been paying attention to the people who have been constant, who have supported me from the start and never given up. They may not have had the means to make huge contributions to the project, but they've helped in whatever ways they could. I would have given up if not for them. They reminded me to hold on to faith and hope.

So, if you choose, you can donate to the site that I've set up. You can find it here:

<http://www.razoo.com/story/Kiss-Chronicles>

The catch is that the site requires a minimum donation of $10. I meant to sell the book for $5, but the vast majority of the third-party fundraising sites set the minimum at $10, so I had to roll with it. This issue is consistent with the fact that nothing turned out as I planned.

Here's my paranoia showing: If at some point in the future the preceding link doesn't work (maybe alien sloths will take over Razoo and crash the site), check my blog at http://kisschronicles.com for updated information, a functioning link, and possibly survival tips for the alien sloth invasion.

Ultimately, I decided to fundraise for a charity that I'll call Lives Overcoming Trials (LOTR). I won't mention it by its real name here in the book — I learned from Cancer Fighters that charities can be protective of their names. However, you can find out which charity it is when you go to my fundraising page. By all means, please look into the charity before deciding whether to donate. I'm always in favor of knowing how donation dollars get put to use. And if you dislike LOTR for some reason, go wild and pick your own cancer-related charity and send it a donation. Perhaps you'd like to donate to a charity that targets a specific cancer, one that has touched your life. I understand completely. If you do that, tell 'em Kiss Chronicles sent you, please.

But, honestly, it doesn't have to be a monetary donation. This is why I kind of like the honor system. You have the freedom to define your donation however you want. You could take flowers to a sick friend and spend time visiting her, or you could rake a neighbor's yard while he rests after chemotherapy. Instead of pitching in from the pocketbook, you could donate straight from a vein — donations of blood and platelets are vital to cancer patient care. Of course, you could donate $10 to the site I've set up. It's quick and easy and doesn't require needles. But do you know that the value of one volunteer hour is estimated to be worth over $20 on average? That quote is for unskilled labor. If you volunteer skilled labor, such as technical skills or artistic talent, the value of your volunteer time leaps up. If you don't have the money to spare but you have some time on your hands, consider volunteering for a charitable cancer event such as a walk or run.

Realistically, I know how it is: I can walk away from a passionate story feeling invigorated and eager to take action, but the procrastination monster can put me to sleep. Maybe you'll walk away with the intention of donating or taking some other action, but it might get away from you. I don't count that as a loss because I know that someday you'll have an opportunity to benefit a cancer charity. When that happens, imagine me as your personal Jiminy Cricket, shouting, "Take the chance! Do it!"

I believe that if I can get this book into your hands, something good can come of it, no matter what that something is. You can determine the "something" for yourself.

My only success is completing this book. I finally have a thing, an item, to encapsulate the work I've done. Whether or not Kiss Chronicles succeeds after this point, well, that isn't up to me. It never was. It isn't up to BS Ads or Amelia or the Kiss Crew or Charity XYZ or anyone else.

It's up to you.

### Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

In some ways, I feel as though this whole book has been a big letter, a chance for me to sit down and write my story directly to you. So I'm treating these final pages as a real letter.

I realize that you might have a few lingering questions. For instance, what's going to happen about my first kiss?

I still want my first kiss. I want to experience what it's like to be desired and to feel a press of soft lips against mine. It will happen someday. However, for now, I'm not going to go chasing it or forcing it. I've had enough of that for a while. And, maybe, just maybe, it's not something broken that I need to fix.

A few my friends have told me, "I want to see you get kissed," and, "I think you need to make an ending for the book that includes your first kiss."

That would create a nice, Hollywood ending. It would be the supposed fairy tale ending. Emphasis on _supposed._

I love fairy tales. I never outgrew them and never will. I enjoy writing them now that I'm an adult, and I still love finding new ones or seeing old ones retold. I love fractured fairy tales, dark fairy tales, light and fluffy fairy tales, and silly fairy tales.

I want to point out, though, that not every fairy tale needs to end with a kiss to have a happy ending, even if it's what the main character first set out to achieve. The character's original goal — whether it was to get a kiss, to find a sword, to become a champion, or just to survive another night — might not be the heart of the story. Sometimes at the end of the journey, the character's original goal is superseded by something more important that she discovered along the way.

Cinderella had a goal. She wanted just one thing: a chance to party. Yes, that's right. After working from dawn to dusk for years, do you think she went to bed each night thinking, "Gee, I wish I had a boyfriend"? _Of course not._ She wanted to get out from under her stepmother's oppressive thumb, take a break, and have fun! She got her night of partying, but the heart of the story isn't that she went to the ball, and it isn't even that she fell in love with a prince while she was there. The _heart_ of the Cinderella story is that she finally found a reason and a way to break free from her sucky home life and move on to being happy. The climax of almost every version of Cinderella involves Cindy defying her stepmother.

I've always had a special love for _Alice in Wonderland._ Alice wanted to escape the boredom and order of her life by hiding away in nonsense dreams, but she discovered that she faced just as many difficulties (or more) in Wonderland as she did in the real world. She couldn't delay growing up indefinitely, and she ended up going in the very direction she first sought to avoid. Plenty of other fairy tales echo this same theme. _Peter Pan_ leaps to mind almost immediately, keeping in mind that Wendy was the main character, and the story revolved around her growing up.

The pied piper of Hamlin just wanted to get paid for his work. The poor shmuck got stuck with permanent babysitting duty.

Pinocchio wanted to become a real boy, and . . . okay, well, yeah, that original goal really was the heart of that story.

Right. Anyway. You get the idea. Although the original goal gets the story started, it might not be the point by the end. That's what happened with me.

I wanted my first kiss. That's where my story started. Along the journey, I faced some troubles and discovered that I had an opportunity to, in my own way, honor my father and brother. At some point, without knowing that it happened, that opportunity became much more important to me than getting my first kiss. That greater goal gave me the strength to let go of the original project and focus on the book. In the end, I achieved something more valuable than what I set out to achieve at the start.

This journey has helped me deal with losing my dad and brother. I've gained invaluable information and insight, which leads me to the next question that you might wish to ask:

Do I regret starting the Kiss Chronicles project?

No, I don't. I'm sad about a few things that happened along the way, but sadness and regret aren't the same. I'm happy that I learned and tried things I never otherwise would have attempted. I took risks, which is normally unlike me, and I have a book to show for everything now that it's over. I couldn't have written this book if I hadn't gone through all those experiences, so how can I regret them? I still plan to continue the blog for the foreseeable future, although I neglected it shamefully while I wrote the book.

What did I learn from my experiences?

I need to become a better planner. I could also stand to add more media skills to my arsenal. I learned a great deal about the value of self-reliance.

I set out to be flexible regarding the project, but I discovered that being too flexible can turn out just as badly as being too rigid. Becoming a better planner would help with that as well.

I found that when things looked their darkest, I knew how to turn them around.

I met many interesting people, none of whom I would have met if I hadn't begun the project. Through my experiences with them, I learned a great deal about how I can do better interacting with others. I struggled to assert myself in several situations, so I still need to work on my assertiveness.

I learned that I can find amazing support from unexpected sources. I owe many people gratitude for their time, talents, and love.

I learned lessons about friendship. Speaking of which, next question:

What ever happened with Amelia? Did I ever contact her? Did she ever contact me?

The last message I received from her was the email explaining her decision to leave the project. After working through my emotions as I wrote the book, I finally found the courage to send her an email, but I didn't receive a reply. Maybe something will happen about that eventually, though I can't predict what. I mentioned that there are some things I'm sad about — what happened with Amelia is the big one.

Why didn't Kiss Chronicles work?

If I had to sum it up in one word, the word would be _me._ In December of 2011, I decided to change the project to the book because the original concept no longer seemed reasonable or feasible. Remembering the relief that followed the decision, knowing how happy I am now and how much I've enjoyed writing this book, I know I made the right decision, even though I struggled to let go.

Different people have different gifts. I came to realize that coordinating people isn't one of my gifts. I'm not a leader. Instead, I have the ability to entertain and amuse. My strength is not in executing ideas, but in conceiving and describing them. As I came to know myself better, I changed my dream to suit my gifts as well as my needs.

Before you walk away from this book, I have one last point I want to make. The most important thing I discovered is that chasing a dream is always worth the time and effort. No matter the outcome, I can learn from the experiences that come out of the chase. I've had fun and exhilarating moments, I've taken risks, and I've been brave when it would have been easier to hide at home. I do not regret the difficult experiences I've had, although I could have done without the embarrassments. You're welcome to learn from my mistakes, certainly, but dreams are worth chasing. You have no way of knowing what you'll discover along the way until you start.

If you need to adapt your dream, then adapt it, but don't give up.

Keep dreaming. I will, too.

With thanks and kisses,

Virginia

P.S. Oh, and here's the end of the fairy tale:

So, with the phoenix quill, the girl wrote a Special Story, which had been growing inside her heart from the day her journey began. Completing the story filled the girl with joy. Then she gave the Special Story as a gift to others, which doubled her joy.

And the girl had many more adventures, because a Special Story never really ends. What's more, she still hasn't given up on finding her Special Kiss.

Connect with the Author

_Warning:_ Excessive links ahead.

I blog at http://kisschronicles.com and am always looking for more kiss stories, kiss pictures, and kiss videos to share. And if you have stories or pictures of helping someone who has cancer, or if you want to show off a donation you made to your favorite cancer charity that you made because of Kiss Chronicles, or anything like that, I'd love to hear from you. You can email me at kisschronicles@gmail.com. I also cheep, chirp, and tweet at @KissChronicle. Hint: Check out my tweet Favorites for some super-short kiss stories from across the Twitter world.

Note: I care about the quality of this book. If you find any tpyos lkie thees, please let me know, and I'll compile them for correction.

If you want to become a fan and follow the continuing progress of the Kiss Chronicles project on Facebook, head to <http://www.facebook.com/kisschronicles>.

I also hang out on the BlogHer website and post there occasionally.

Connect with the Contributors

If you'd like to connect with some of the writers who have contributed short kiss stories to this book, I have info for that, too.

Stephan Loy's website is <http://stephanloy.com/Welcome.html>. He's a self-published author of multiple books — my favorite is _Isis Wept._ His Twitter handle is @StephanLoy.

Layla Rainbolt blogs at http://www.laylarainbolt.com.

Brad Severance is a webmaster multitasker at http://www.bradseverance.com, http://www.pentopaperblog.org, and http://www.webofbeing.com. It's a good thing he knows code.

Jim Meeks-Johnson has an author website at http://meeks-johnson.com. His site also includes a blog, which you can access from the navigation menu.

You can connect with Andy Hollandbeck on his blog, Logophilius (http://logophilius.blogspot.com), and on Twitter (@4ndyman).

Tom Farrell's website is http://thomasscottfarrell.com, and you can become a fan at <http://www.facebook.com/thomasscottfarrell> and follow him on Twitter at @thomassfarrell.

