The first time I met my sweet husband-to-be, I kissed him.
It was a Christmas party, circa 1983. I was standing, talking to a man across the festively laden table. We introduced each other. “Oh, you are Michelle!” he exclaimed, as I said, “Oh, you are Kevin!”
For over a year we had heard of each other from a multitude of friends but we had never actually met. Excited to meet this friend of friends, I leaned across the potluck dishes to give him a quick peck of a kiss. And…that kiss…. it started like sweet honey dabbed on my lips and then poured through me like flaming Ouzo.
And it sent me running from him for the next three years.
Because I was living with another man who was destined to marry me and to father my first child.
Because, even though it was ‘just a peck’ (and public at that), that kiss told me that no matter how chaste our behavior, our ‘connection’ was not platonic.
Because I was scared. I was in a committed relationship with someone else and this kiss had sparked my soul. Living in Southern California, I knew about sparks: they can start wildfires, dangerous and deadly wildfires.
So for the next three years, if Kevin appeared where I was, be it a party, house or store, I would leave within minutes. Literally minutes. I would check my watch, give myself five minutes to be in his sweet, thrilling presence and then leave. I would make up some silly excuse and I would walk out the door.
Fast forward thirty years. On the 19th day of February 2013, we will celebrate our 24th wedding anniversary.
Our celebration will, undoubtedly, include a sweet, sweet kiss.
May all babies be born into loving hands
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