I'm sitting in a darkened theater next to a nicely dressed guy. Katharine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy are on the screen in a wonderful black-and-white 50s flick,
I think back to cinematic experiences a good 10 to 15 years ago when it seemed normal to be butterfly-filled over the thought that he might actually take my hand in his. Such a simple gesture fraught with so much meaning. But now, as a 30something, I just feel ridiculous and too old to be getting fluttery over simple palm-to-palm contact—or even the mere prospect of it. People my age have mortgages, marriages, minivans, and sex 2.3 times a week.
I cringe inwardly, but the romance on the screen and a slow, small hormonal uprising within somehow lure me past the illogic and prompt me to move my hand just that much more reachable. These hormones have been dormant so long I feel I should get out a dust cloth. But suddenly the hand moving a few inches closer to mine feels instead like a window being cracked open, letting in a fresh breeze and a warm ray of light.
I smile, but not too broadly, so he won't think I'm paying attention to the delicate dance of our hands. I fret over whether or not my hand's too close, too obvious, too pathetic. I look at the Band-Aid on my index finger and wish I'd sat on his other side, so he could potentially take my "good" hand. I wonder if dates my age still hold hands in movie theaters. Catching his screen-lit profile in my peripheral vision, I feel a swell of hope that they do.
I get lost in the movie again for a while, then re-cross my legs. A few minutes later, my date does the same. Out of the corner of my eye I catch him glance down at our hands in the process, noticing the proximity, the mere inches between two people watching a movie and a couple watching a movie. I shift another inch closer, as if to say, Yes, oh yes, the girl in me wants you to take my hand in yours.
I ponder for a moment whether or not I'm supposed to be the hand-holding initiator. Have women taken on that role? Is he waiting for me to "make a move"? Surely it's not supposed to be this complicated. I wonder what he would think if he could somehow hear my neurotic mental monologue. Would he run screaming from the movie theater? I think I'd be tempted to if I were in his shoes.
Just when I'm getting caught up in the movie again, he does it. I feel a tentative finger brush mine; I brush back. And the next thing I know, my hand is sliding into his. In one swift motion, he moves our entwined hands to rest on his leg, and he gently caresses my fingers.
Neither of us looks at the other; our eyes are glued to the screen. But I have no idea what's happening there. I'm too busy being 16 again. And to my utter delight, it's not pathetic, but wonderful. Ah yes, I am a girl. And someone notices. And it's delicious.
Three days later I'm sitting at lunch with a friend who's been married seven years. I've told her there's a new guy on the scene and she's demanded all the details. "Don't leave anything out," she encourages. I smile and contemplate whether or not to share all my neurotic ramblings from the other night. I share a few, mention how silly I felt to be wanting to hold hands in a dark movie theater when most people my age are living together or celebrating anniversaries with jewelry or weekend getaways.
Right after we order she says something that puts it all into perspective. "I miss holding hands and making out. I miss that fluttery feeling that comes with a new relationship. Don't get me wrong," she clarifies. "I love my husband dearly and I love the relationship we've built. But I don't get to feel giddy anymore."
Right there in the restaurant booth it becomes clear. This is the season for hand-holding and first kisses, for butterflies and giddiness. Yes, there's the potential for heartbreak and break-up, for back to square one. But one great perk of this single season is that seemingly silly longing to connect, literally, with another human being, to say without words, I really like you and want to explore becoming an us, a we, a couple.
We all know these wonderfully awkward firsts don't come around every day. So whether we're 18 or 80, they're moments to savor. Moments that are a precious gift from our Father, who created us as relational beings, who gave us hands and lips, who knit us together with a few butterflies inside. As for me, I'm just grateful mine are getting a rare chance to fly.
Camerin welcomes your feedback and brainstorms at: SinglesNewsletter@ChristianityToday.com
