High school was the time of giggling girls and post-dance (I was in boarding school) note comparisons on who got to First Base: The Kiss (or was it holding hands?) As I remember it, girls would still admit to reaching Second Base: The Fondle, hearts a-flutter to a kiss and a wondering hand (bums and boobs only). Third Base: Heavy Petting (just writing that makes me feel weird) was only whispered among best friends, to the shock and disbelief of said friend with a word of caution, or a concealed low-key jealousy. Thereafter you get slapped with the Scarlet Letter: S. Slut.
Then you grown up and First and Second Base are fun but brief and Third and Fourth morph into one and next thing you've reproduced and all Bases are off.
In a big city I stayed below the radar and enjoyed my anonymity; a handful of good, like-minded friends was what I needed and had. Then to the super-small town where there are only a handful of like-minded people you gratefully seek each other out and that's that, you've got mates.
Now increase the size of the town, change countries and continents, skip through the first two months of family, fun and outings, plunge into the third set on establishing a routine, succeed and then find yourself somewhat adrift in the fourth. What's missing?
Friends. Proper ones. Not the ones you wave to across the field and call a "Hiya" to and then, "Alright?" when closer. No. Like-minded people, roughly your age that you can natter with over a cuppa. This is not a simple matter. All the old: how many times should I phone (now inbox) before I look desperate? Maybe she only said we should "do this again" because that's what people say but didn't really mean it? Maybe my sister was right when she said English people don't invite you into their homes? How long should I wait for a response before I suggest a cuppa again? Do they even say play date here? Maybe I came on too strong, too South African?
So when a fellow runner, with whom I chat easily, is my age and has kids the same age as mine responded favourably to my understated hint at possibly getting together – using all the words that would give her a get-out-of-jail-free card: maybe, possible, time permitting – all the above came to mind.
Then score, First Base – and far more enjoyable than the inexperienced super-gob graunch (awful word) of the 14 year old boy at the school fence. Plans are made, the house is found, the front door is knocked on ... the front door is knocked on, a moment of panic, she's forgotten ... a noise from inside, a voice getting closer ... exhale ... "Hi."
Legs tucked under us on the couch, coffee cups in hand we chatted easily. I should have left earlier, I had work to do, but I was having fun. Then the inevitable, "I really must go." The latter brings with it the anxiety of what's to come ... he's walked you back to your school, you held hands, then you arrive at the gate ... in this case the front door and the HUG. I love a good, strong hug but only with people I know very, very well, so when she steps forward, arms opening, there it is, Second Base, staring at me ... other couples are arriving thick and fast at the gate, there's a lot of awkward pausing, pressure from those behind ... I take a breath and literally embrace the moment, albeit a little A-frame.
Don't worry AL, I won't hold your hand but I have made a friend. A proper one.
