Now that the election dust has settled and we await the Ramaphosian promises being fulfilled, let’s get into more serious issues. Like smooching. Two sets of lips, each carrying its own brand of bug in the saliva, making slurpy contact. How gross.
And yet we do it all the time. Why this distasteful practice? Who invented a habit that’s become acceptable – even in civilised society?
Mr Caveman? Why would he have wanted to share his lips, covered in the blood of the underdone brontosaurian T-bone with his spouse? Would she have approved of him plonking his greasy lips on hers? A turn on? Ugh!
Parts of my family still have men kissing. Every time I witness this greeting between brothers, sons and fathers, my stomach turns, envisioning shared mix of garlic, curry and stale beer. And moustaches dripping with syrup and peanut butter making sticky contact. Ag,nee, man.
Despite this repugnant scenario, we kiss for love, to say hello and goodbye. And paradoxically, it leaves a good feeling. Scientists believe kissing is a “learned behaviour”, since 10 percent of humans don’t kiss at all and considerably fewer kiss with romantic or sexual intent. Others believe kissing is instinctual and biological.
There are folk so interested in kissing they make it a career. The science is called philematology, the art and study of kissing. How they go about doing research? A study group in a room spending an hour kissing each other, then reporting what emotions they experienced? Or on the set of romantic films, recording the results after the lovers’ kissing session?
Talking of films, you can’t imagine romantic scenes without kissing. Interestingly enough, what was called the Hays Code in 1930 prevented actors from kissing in a horisontal position on the big screen, and kisses could not last longer than three seconds. No more.
The Eskimo kiss is no better. Rubbing two noses. I resolve to give up kissing. Even medicos tell us to distance ourselves from coughing and sneezing, and we know mouths are the conduit doing the spreading.
But hang on. There’s a call from the bedroom. “Time for a goodnight kiss, darling”.
I swallow the resolve. If kissing were so bad, show me the epidemic of sicknesses and death in honeymoon suites – and igloos.