Thirty years ago tomorrow, when most of you will read this, I kissed a boy. He wasn’t any ordinary boy. He was the boy I would eventually give/lose my virginity to.
(It was a square deal; he was a virgin as well.)
How have three decades gone by? Moreover, how is it that I have a child who is thirty years younger than me. (Well, more precisely: 29 years, 11 months, and 25 days; and yes, I do lay claim to having had a baby in my twenties.)
Consider the math on this: what I was doing 30 years ago versus what my son might be doing now at this same age. This equation yields two obvious conclusions: 1) I am middle aged; 2) my son might be kissing the person he’s going to give/lose his virginity to.
Frankly, I can’t determine which of these I find more shocking.
Which is strange because both were bound to happen.
So in addition to drawing the parallel between my here-and-now son and my mid 80’s self, there’s also the fact that I haven’t a clue as to the actual date I lost my virginity, which is weird because I’m pretty good with dates and that seems the sort of date one would find memorable.
(This assertion comes without regard to “how was it?” Think back to your first time. Yep, it was probably that good.)
Pondering over this though, I have come up with a decent hypothesis: I choose to remember the one over the other because had that first kiss not happened, it wouldn’t have set forth a chain of events which led to going from “X” to “not an X anymore.”
When a title changes for someone, it means leaving behind a known past and going forward into a new future. Think about it: newborn, baby, toddler, student (K-12, college, grad school) fiancé, spouse, parent, worker (insert any vocation), expert, grandparent, retiree, traveler, homebound, deceased.
Virgin is not any different. It leaves behind the known innocent past and replaces it with an undiscovered future.