Kissing Cousins

You remember the goon’s cousin that I mentioned earlier? Well, his name was Mitch*. He entered the scene when his family began visiting our church. Mitch was our first up-close encounter with a real life nerd. It wasn’t just that he was nerdy in appearance; he really was smarter than the rest of us. But aside from having an unusual love for science and a somewhat disproportionate shnauz, he was a great guy with one glaring flaw…he was completely infatuated with my sister.

In sharp contrast to my classic goody-two-shoes routine was my sister, the rebel without a cause. She was your typical school-ditching, club-hopping, sneaking-out-of-the-window-on- the-weekends, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, party girl. And this crisp seemed, khaki pants, tucked in polo shirt, loafers with argyle sock wearing honor student couldn’t have been farther from her type.

Week after week he would show up at our house with a date proposal and week after week he got shot down cold. Soon, a new ritual began forming. Mitch would ask her out for some activity, she would offer her usual heartless rejection, and he would casually turn to me and say, “Well, do you want to go with me?” I had no expectations and nothing to lose so I accepted and fell naturally into place as the good friend.

This hanging out phase continued for about a year even though both Mitch and I dated other people (the cheating, rumor spreading, kiss-killer for example). As our friendship grew, he became less the nerd and more the really funny guy with a dry wit and sarcastic sense of humor that I enjoyed even though I didn’t always get it. (I had yet to tap into my natural gifting in this area.) It was during this time I began to notice that my friend role, which included meeting and gauging his new dates, was becoming more and more difficult. They were all annoying, stupid, flighty, and none of them were…well…me.

You can imagine my elation when he informed me that he and the last ditz, er, uh, date had parted ways and he wanted me to take her place. We were at Stone Mountain Park, GA. The most romantic spot in the world if hundreds of under-aged, over-boozed, hormone-crazed teenagers making out on beach towels; coming up for air just long enough to pipe out a sluggish and slurred rendition of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” is what you consider romantic.

My response? Silence. Complete and utterly awkward silence. Thinking back, it’s hard to pinpoint the reason for my hesitation. Fear and nervousness? An express desire NOT to look like one of the aforementioned “get a room” losers? The fact that I had built the moment up in my mind to such a degree than it was impossible for reality to meet my expectations? Yeah, it was probably one or all of those.



*Name has been changed to protect the innocent –me. I don’t want to be sued for slander.