My husband kissed an older woman. It was long ago, before the term “cougar” had been coined. He was in kindergarten. She was in first grade. Ah, young puppy love. Although they remained friends over the years, the kiss was never repeated or mentioned again.
According to my hubby, the girl with whom he’d played kissy-face turned into a hot cheerleader. He, on the other hand, wasn’t exactly a card-carrying cool kid on campus. He was a year younger chronologically, but eons socially.
One day after football practice, he got a little loose-lipped in the high school locker room. When his teammates were discussing the hot cheerleader, he bragged that he had kissed her. He instantly regretted spouting off, but the deed was done and there was no taking it back. He failed to mention that the kiss had been a decade prior. His friends were wide-eyed and he instantly gained a modicum of social status.
His bold proclamation spread like wildfire. He knew it was only a matter of time before he’d get burned. Eventually his kissing claim reached the ears of the cheerleader. Of course, she vehemently denied kissing a plebeian such as him, several rungs down on the social ladder. Her friends at the cool kids table sauntered over and confronted him in the quad at lunchtime, with a huge audience of onlookers. He was mortified – humiliated in front of his peers. And, just like that, his street cred faded away, like a chalk picture in a rainstorm.
