Spooning

The first time I heard the term spooning I was 18, taking a marine biology course at a local junior college. I had no intention of becoming a marine biologist, but the course included a trip to Monterey to explore tide pools. Who doesn't enjoy a free road trip complete with bunking in a small cabin on the coast of California? When the time came to prepare for the trip I was told I needed to rent a wet-suit.

Now unless you are a surfer, you have no business being in a wet-suit. I am convinced they were made as torture devices. Even those with chiseled abs will tell you they are not the most comfortable form of attire.

The man running the store, bless his heart, brought out a suit fit for a girl half my size. I asked him to bring in the next size three more times until he said, “You know they are meant to be tight, right?”

I finally left with my gigantic wet-suit in hand. This won’t be so bad I told myself.

The day before the trip, I started my period. This becomes a reoccurring pattern for the rest of my life—if there’s a momentous occasion, vacation or holiday, I will start my period. Yes, I even started on my wedding day.

We arrived in Monterey and were told to put on our suits and meet back at the bus. Twenty five clueless college kids, in suits that smelled of fisherman’s boots crowded onto a bus and were toted out to the tide pools looking like oversized seals that had just been slightly clubbed. We wandered around aimlessly—not a single biology major among us.

Our professor told us to take notes of what we found and to be careful because the—whack! Face first I pan-caked onto the seaweed-covered rocks. Another student fell and another. We were ridiculous baby seal cubs who had been officially clubbed by the nature we pretended to care about.

By the time we got back to our cabins I imagined the inside of my suit looked like I had experienced a shark attack. There was only one shower and most people volunteered to hose off out front so that they didn't drag their rank wet suits through the cabin.

Not a chance in hell.

I dashed to the bathroom and watched the shower water turn red as clumps of mossy seaweed clung to the shower tiles.

That night some of the boys ended up in our cabin. When it came time to go to bed, I noticed that my high school friend Lisa, who had signed up for the class with me, was in a bed with one of the guys and another girl.

The next morning, the talk was about the three of them who had slept in the same bed. That’s when I was told that they had “spooned.”

I pretended to know what “spooning” was, but I had no idea. My sex education up to that point had come from a high school teacher who was more awkward about being there than we were. To make matters worse, a pimply faced boy named Ray who sat next to me attempted to lure me into the bathroom each day so that he could give me one on one sex-ed tutoring. 

In my mind, the only thing spooning could mean was fingers cupped like a spoon, digging into a girl’s vagina. The idea didn't sound pleasurable.

In my defense, no one had a smart phone and the internet was nowhere close to what it is today. If I wanted to go home and Google “spooning,” it would take at least five minutes for the internet to connect.

At some point I figured out what spooning was. Perhaps because someone offered to “spoon” me and an extremely awkward moment transpired, I can’t recall. It was however, a letdown. Spooning is simply cuddling, which don’t get me wrong, can be awesome I just had something far more exotic in mind.

Years later, while in Vegas, my sister-in-law showed me a sticker that read “Spooning Leads to Forking.” I bought it and keep it in the top drawer of my desk to remind me of how innocent I was, and how potentially dangerous spoons can be.

For those that are still clueless or need some "spooning" pointers, click here...who knew there was so much involved?!