We love to laugh about it now, because it was a complete train wreck. Messy and confusing. Essentially, I played it like I play a round of paintball--afraid of getting pelted, dodging at every corner. (Retreat, retreat, retreat.)
He thought I was about as interesting to kiss as a corpse, I thought he was as overzealous as a pubescent teen. I was like a blind scuba diver just praying I could come up for air, and he was like a medic trying to breathe life into his dying patient. It's a wonder we ever recovered, honestly.
So over our abundant meal of I-regret-this-five-minutes-after-eating-it burritos and funny memories, I told my sweet husband, "It's a good thing you have me. I taught you everything you know about kissing." Immediately, he guffawed in my face. He practically spewed "refried" beans in my face.
And then he said it, those seven life-changing words: "Babe, I'm a better kisser than you."
An awkward silence passed between us when I realized that he wasn't joking. Dead pan (like how my dishes look after I cook). He was as serious as a the wedgie that ensues from running in a thong.
Obviously, I didn't take this revelation well. Three years of kissing and all this time, he's thought he's better? The nerve. As if that wasn't enough, he even had a list of reasons why he's apparently more skilled than I am.
After he presented his dissertation on How Mr. Roach is Better than Mrs. Roach, I whined in my best two-year-old voice. "YOU DON'T THINK I'M A GOOD KISSER!? I'M YOUR WIFE. I'M PRETTIER THAN YOU, SO I'M BETTER... RIGHT?"
He back-tracked, smart man, and claimed he never said I was "bad" only that he is "better." But whatever, the deed has been done. Apparently, I need to start busting out the special moves I've been saving for later on down the road. (Ha.)
So if you need me, I'll be in therapy.
And oh, and in case you were wondering, yes . . . our first kiss after this conversation was incredibly awkward and hilarious.
This caption could be a thought bubble for Grahm: "Ewwwwww!"