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Message: <blockquote data-quote="barsoomcore" data-source="post: 1844696" data-attributes="member: 812">The debate over who kissed who first will probably never be resolved. By now it's one of the touchstones of our marriage -- our squabbles over who gets to claim bragging rights are too entertaining for our friends.I met my wife because I was dating one of her friends. That relationship ended VERY badly (I tried to do the decent thing, but nobody takes getting dumped easily, and she was pretty heartbroken), and the future Mrs. Barsoom spent many afternoons listening to her teary friend expound upon my many failings and character flaws.We had two classes together that year: Shakespeare and Romantics. I was the loudmouthed knowitall who irritated everyone else; she was the well-dressed saucy one with a tart observation ready to take anyone down. Especially me. She was sarcastic, smarter than anyone, better-read than anyone, and much, much better-dressed than anyone.She always wore a hat. She was short, curvaceous and walked with such a sashay to her that you could recognize her by her shadow. Even bundled in a parka against the Calgary winter, you knew it was her coming just from the way her hips rolled.She was the coolest woman I'd ever met. Way, WAY too cool for me. So I broke her friend's heart and she listened to THAT side of the story.I spent the summer growing my hair out. In those days, I had a LOT of hair. By next September, it was past my shoulders, very thick and straight. We had an Elizabethan literature class together, and her eyes lit up at the sight of my locks.She liked long hair. Who knew?We spent most of our time drinking, smoking, arguing about poetry, and pretending we weren't madly attracted to each other. Then came Hallowe'en. We decided on a joint costume -- she (short and curvy, remember) dressed as a man and me (tall, gawky and so long-jawed I can nearly open bottles with my chin) in stockings and a dress, with my long hair curled. There's a picture of me sitting on her lap -- you can barely see her straining face.Somewhere around there we found ourselves, drunk as per usual (we did a truly frightening amount of drinking in those days -- we once shook off the haze to realise we'd been drunk daily for something like two months straight), lazing about on some armchairs in an abandoned university lounge. Which is where we kissed.She SAYS that she kissed me first. That's clearly wrong, since my memories (such as they are) have me kissing her first. She, however, refuses to see reason and has stuck to her story ever since.I graduated from university a year before she did and took a job teaching English in Tokyo. Before I left, I took the claddagh ring she'd always worn on her right hand, turned it around and replaced it. For those of you who don't know, the claddagh is the Irish symbol of two hands holding a heart with a crown. There's a pattern to how the claddach is meant to be worn: right hand, crown out means single; right hand, crown in means engaged; left hand, crown out means married; left hand, crown in means widowed. So by turning the ring around and replacing it, I was in effect putting an engagement ring on her.We were sort of sober for once, and she asked me very seriously if I knew what I was doing. I nodded. She asked if I was still going to Tokyo and I nodded again, and asked her to wait for me. She said she'd join me when she finished university.We spent fourteen months writing each other letters every week. I didn't have a phone so that was our only communication. We'd write pages every day, and at the end of each week just bundle them up and send them to each other. Both of us being writers, it was a natural form of communication for us, and we poured our souls into those letters.Fourteen months later she came to Tokyo. We lived in a one-room apartment that was not more than twelve feet across for two and a half years. Surrounded by Japanese people on all sides. Drinking like fiends and smoking and arguing about poetry the whole time.We came back to Canada, decided to live in Vancouver and let her mother organize a massive wedding for us in Calgary. Her father's pipe band friends played, our man of honour stood up and sang "Dirty Old Town" a cappella, we danced to "Just One of Those Things", and the Anglican pastor who'd changed my life by teaching me Aikido married us in his full regalia (along with motorcycle boots under his robe). It was one of the best parties we'd ever had.That was seven years ago. Now she's writing a novel, we game together constantly, and are happier than ever. My hair's not long anymore and there's not so much of it. She's still better-dressed than anyone. I'm not quite as loudmouthed, though perhaps still pretty irritating. She's still sarcastic, smart and well-read. We don't smoke anymore, don't drink so much, still argue about poetry and no longer pretend we aren't madly attracted to each other. She's still the coolest woman I've ever met. Way, WAY too cool for me.But I kissed her first, and don't let her ever tell you otherwise.</blockquote>

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