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This morning at the breakfast table I finished reading Sheril Kirshenbaum's
The Science of Kissing,
which I purchased for Cara several years ago as a Valentine's Day gift but she has never read. I was waiting to let her read it
first, but seeing it sit around the bedroom forever I finally gave up. I understand now why she didn't finish it - it's kind of
a slow read. Kirshenbaum repeats herself. Alot. It seems more like a journalist's attempt to make a subject book length than an
authoritative tome on the subject. One would think that the exciting subject of kissing would hold my attention, but I had to
put the book down a number of times because my mind was wondering too much to stay focused on it. You know, when your eyes
go through the motion of reading and you find yourself several pages beyond the last part of the book you recall.
Of course, all this negativity may just be a manifestation of my subconscious prudishness trying to justify disliking the book
without admitting that I'm somewhat like the little boy in the Princess Bride whom Kirshenbaum quotes, "Is this a kissing
book?" Oh well, I guess I'll go give Cara a smooch.
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