My first time

You started reading thinking it would be all about that first time, didn't you? Perverts. And it is, a little, but not just that. As I was sipping my first festive coffee of the season yesterday (I know, I know, it's only the first week of November), I started thinking about firsts. And while there is indeed a first time for everything, the older you get, the fewer and further between the firsts become. So here's a random sampling of my first times, the gingerbread latte edition.

Let's get it out of the way right now. The first time I had sex. I was a bit of later bloomer, so I was in university. I wasn't really "saving it" for anyone special. Just hadn't done it. It was fine, I suppose, if a bit awkward, a little painful, and kind of underwhelming. Basically, exactly what I expected. And about two or three weeks later, the guy, who I'd been sort of seeing, decided he was going to definitely start seeing someone else. Also exactly what I expected. I've always hated the old virginity-saving mantra "why buy the milk...", but in this case I pretty much only have one thing to say. Moo.

The first time I purposefully set out to get blind drunk. It was, naturally, because of a guy. His ambivalence seemed like a perfectly good reason to drink a magnum and a half of cheap sparkling wine and head to a gay bar with my friends. Bad idea; all those beautiful boys in tight white t-shirts were even less interested in me than the guy who prompted my magnum opus. Now that was depressing, especially during the slow make out songs. I remember waking up in the morning feeling like I'd been beaten with a disco ball and having the strange sensation that I was covered in kittens. Which it turns out I actually was; I'd crashed at a friend's apartment, his cat had recently had kittens, and he was placing them on me like so many little mewling alarm clocks in an attempt to rouse me from my Baby Duck stupor.

The first time I arrived in Paris. I'd wanted to go for years, and at the age of 27 was finally there, by myself. I'm a planner, so I knew that according to my map, I'd need to grab a taxi at the train station in order to reach my hostel. So I jumped in the back seat and gave the driver the address. He looked at me strangely, said something, and gestured. At first I thought he was off duty, but that's when my high school french kicked in and it hit me. I'd read the map wrong, and the address I needed was about 100 metres away. Bonjour, no sense of direction!

The first time a man I was in love with told me he loved me, too. Yeah, still waiting on that one. I know how to pick 'em. Not quite the kind of perfect record a woman dreams of...

The first time I lost someone. The last thing my grandfather ever said to me? The evening before he died, he asked me if Melrose Place was a repeat. He loved bat-shit crazy Kimberly. I was in the room with him until shortly before he died, but I couldn't bear to stay. I kissed him goodbye, left the hospital, and went to pay my power bill. Shock disguised as practicality. Then I went to my workplace to let them know I'd be leaving town for a few days. I stayed there until I was pretty sure it was over, then I went home to meet my mom and my grandmother. I'll never forget coming down my walkway, and seeing the light on in my living room. Which meant they were back from the hospital. Which meant he was gone. Saddest walk to my door of my life.

The first time I made risotto. Seems weird that I'd remember this, since I've done a lot of cooking. But when you're single, you're much more likely to reach for a jar of Classico sauce than make something that must be stirred constantly for about half an hour while you add tiny amounts of broth. But I'd eaten risotto a few times in restaurants, loved it, and was determined to get my Julie Child on. I simmered. I stirred. I stirred some more. Then I kept stirring. And my first buttercup squash risotto was perfect. The only way I could have been more proud of myself would be if I'd invented risotto.

The first time I said "fuck" to my mother. I was about 20, and a bunch of us had driven to Toronto to hang out. I was at my friend Mike's place, in his roommate's room, talking to Mom on the phone. A phone shaped like Big Bird. We were disagreeing about something when the "fuck Mom!" slipped out. The sting of maternal disapproval was somewhat lessened by the fact that I'd uttered the curse while yelling into the feet of a much loved Sesame Street inhabitant.

I hope there are still many firsts in my future. I always thought I knew what to expect just around the bend, but the last year or so has proven me wrong. I know what I hope some of my yet-to-happen firsts will be, but who knows? As long as they're less of the "my first time appearing before a judge" and more of the " my first time in Hawaii" variety, I think I'm on the right track.