As hard as Apple i-everythings want us to believe otherwise, there’s no digital substitute for the charge that came from passing a note.
On that score, society is bored and desperate for a counterfeit.
Old school flirting & texting had a much higher heat index.
I’ll never forget Sr. Josephine busting me in 8th grade passing a rather randy for-the-time note to a girl. She’d (not Sr. Josephine) been in the cross-hairs of my virgin, libidinous, adolescent love-radar all year. So nervous as to actually do anything about it, she lived only in the guilty-pleasure recesses of an altar boy brain formed in molds of shame and guilt.
After a recess game of dodge-ball on a warm spring day in 1968, I finally took a shot.
Still learning about predicate adjectives modifying the noun subject, so please bear with me.
Where was I? O’ yeah…girls.
Catholic grrls have their own style and method. She (who shall remain unnamed) blushed and smiled demurely when handing her the note. Unceremonially busted by the evil nun in a quest to connect was no cause to abort the mission at hand. Chivalrous points were scored by not outing her as the recipient. Today, chivalry is not dead…only smothered by the oppressive Antichrist of political correctness.
It was well worth falling on the sword. Two months later, the maiden of my affections reciprocated. She stalked me in the hallway with brown squares to line up on. With perfect timing, she pounced like a female leopard, and pushed me into the open locker in the hallway. Being pinned in the locker for a kiss on the last day of school made it worth the first felonious charge of being busted for passing a desperate note of longing.
Her furtive kiss shocked my young eighth-grade sense of propriety inflicted by frustrated nuns. Holy Guacamole Batman. That kiss provided a serious charge shooting from the soles of my feet through the top of an Irish melon that’s never forgotten it.
Her sweet, not-so-innocent kiss fired every brain synapse in a fractal cacophony of impact. As she withdrew from the strike and smiled, I could only slump in that locker and drool. With knees of jello later bent in a prayer of gratitude, it was a holy event.
She went on to Bishop Foley while I went on to moral bankruptcy and debauchery in the public system of More Fun. Truth be told, those Foley Girls could party like rock stars.
But I digress…again
Today, the PC Police might call that 45-year-old memory a source of trauma. Imagine being harassed, bullied & man-handled into a dark locker for a kiss.
The horror, the horror…not. It was righteous, real and fun. Can’t do that with a smart phone.
Seeing her happily married at the last Bishop Foley reunion, nothing needed to be said. For a millisecond with eyes locked, we smiled and connected. She may have even blushed.
Either that, or Hurley is just getting delusional in his old age.
The art of kissing ought not ever diminish, fade or become boring. I was forty years old before learning how a well placed kiss and lip-lock of connection beats getting laid any day of the week.
The wisdom of that concept gets better with age.
The options some fall for aren’t worth even considering.
Porn sucks. Being a promiscuous idiot is even worse.
Flirting is fun. If it leads to a kiss or brush of the tongue, that’s cool too.
Now either go rip-off your partner or take a cold shower.