I go to Hip Hop classes. Yes, that’s right. It’s my way of taking my own advice. You see, when I am contorting my body into all sorts of new positions which feel incredibly awkward all the while trying to make them look sexy and full of attitude, I get in touch with my inner diva a bit better. I love the sweat dripping off me at the end of my class because it is proof that I really worked hard, even if I sucked at it. I love the sense of accomplishment that comes when I get a move coordinated to the proper beat of the music. I love the fact that I dance with a bunch of middle-aged moms who, like me, are trying to regain a bit of their youth through this class. I love pretending that my husband is in the audience getting totally turned on by my new moves.

After class is over, the ‘tude is dropped and we all morph back into the suburban moms that we are in our real lives and troop over to the local Starbucks. LL Cool J would be so proud. Anyways, tonight we were enjoying conversation about our kids and their dance classes (and how much better than us they are), and all of a sudden our gaze was irresistibly drawn to a young couple who had walked in, arm in arm. After placing their order, they moved over to the pick up counter, and while they were waiting for their coffees (or vanilla cream frappachinos), they embraced and proceeded to kiss. Now, make no mistake – I’m not talking a little peck on the lips. I’m talking the full-on open-mouth French kiss.  Also known as: lip locking, mugging down, tongue wrestling, spit swapping, or my husband’s personal favourite – tonsil hockey.  (when we were dating he liked to refer to himself as the Wayne Gretzke of tonsil hockey)

The reaction around our table was quite interesting. I mean, just 20 minutes before this little public display of  affection, we were throwing our boobs around and grabbing our crotches as we prepped for our dance recital (yes, this is truly part of our dance). You would think – given how comfortable we have become with groping ourselves in front of other people – that some PDA wouldn’t faze us in the slightest.  You might even think that we would have whistled or cheered or clapped.  But that was not our reaction.

Instead, the table suddenly went completely quiet. And then the obligatory “get a room” comment was thrown out. And then we all tittered about how inappropriate it was – those two standing in our Starbucks stoking the flames of their hormones.

But as I drove home, I wondered when was the last time these women kissed their husbands like that young couple. Come to think of it, when was the last time I kissed my husband like that? Are we so offended because this behaviour is truly inappropriate (after all, we watch far worse on TV, movies, dance videos, and the like)? Or are we offended because it is a face to face reminder of what we have let slide in our own relationships? Something that we have let go. Something that we deeply miss, when we are being honest with ourselves.

I recently had a friend point out an article in a magazine. It talked about relationships and sex, and concluded by saying that if we still had the passion that had before we got married, we would never get anything else done besides having sex. Now, I don’t know about that, but I sure think those kids in the Starbucks were having more fun than we were.

When is the last time you kissed your spouse like he was your lover (or like she was your lover)?