My friend said that her 15-year-old nephew is experiencing major exam tension. “Gawd, I’d hate to be 15 again!” she added.

“Really? I’d love to get a teenage do-over,” I said.

Sure, I remember being hypersensitive about everything. But I also recall many exciting memories. Accomplishments, discoveries and – best of all – crushes. Boys stopped having cooties and started looking good.

If only I could return with my present-day brain. Oh, the power I’d have over kissing. By fifteen I remained un-kissed, mainly from a lack of options. Namely, the boys who paid attention to me were either too boring or too intimidating. Okay, so maybe I was picky.

I didn’t long for the studious bookworm who brought me gifts from his family trip to Germany. How thoughtful. Nor did I crave the brawling bad boy with engine grease under his nails. I started to feel like Goldilocks who couldn’t find the right bed.

My mom might not like to hear that bed analogy.

Speaking of Mom, years later she sent me a newspaper clipping about the first boy who kissed me, reporting how he was sent to prison for something grand – grand theft auto? grand larceny? 

I forget his crime but thanks all the same, Mom, for rubbing in my superlative taste in dates. And if I had my present brain at age 15, I’d be smart enough NOT to tell my mom about my first kiss!

As for that kiss, it was a memorable moment largely because I never saw it coming. I was on a date with an older boy from my high school. After a party, we rode home with another couple. In the car’s back seat, suddenly – SLURP – he caught me in a serious lip lock. With eyes wide open, I watched the poor guy work so diligently, maneuvering his mouth over mine. 

Was it a good first kiss? I was in too much shock for any useful rating system. Of course I had to break up with him. I wasn’t ready for all that attention from males. 

The next boy I kissed at age sixteen (slow starter me) pulled away from our embrace and said, “Know what would make this feel way better?”

Here it comes, I thought, convinced he was about to expound on the comfort advantage of removing our clothing. I’d heard plenty of juicy stories by then.

“What?”

“If you closed your mouth a little.”

Huh…? I figured the object of necking was to open wide and say “ah.” Instead, I was a big-mouthed bass. I’ll forever be grateful for his kiss coaching, although I had to break up with him too. How could I stand the shame?

While a self-professed slow starter, I was an equally quick learner. Once I figured out how to lock lips without a negative critique, I quite liked everything about necking.

Dear 15-year-old nephew: may you survive the teen years with more laughter than tears. And if you haven’t already, have fun learning how to kiss. It only gets better!