As a hug-avoider of long standing, the excellent piece by Monica A Leyva (A Taxonomy of Holding) – reminded me of writing with passion some time ago that physical inhibition does not correspond to lack of passion. Monica’s piece responds to a prompt about different types of holding, so I hope she won’t mind me going off on a mental riff.
Unsurprisingly, the reluctant hugger came into her own post-Covid. So now that we are accustomed to a world of elbow bumps and thumbs-up from a respectable distance (say, the adjacent London borough), is it OK for me to continue signalling my emotions from a distance far, far away? Here’s what goes through my mind when gripped unexpectedly:
1. Where is the nearest exit?
2. How long will this contact last?
3. Why are they rubbing my back in an apparent overture to the Heimlich manoeuvre?
4. Why is my mother still attempting this when she knows the score?
The case for the defence is that hugging boosts the immune system and releases the chemical oxytocin – aka the happiness hormone – in our warmly enveloped bodies. However, I get the same positive rush from stroking my cat. To be fair, I do hug the cat and he’s been known to reciprocate, but in a no-strings-attached kind of way, without timing the brevity of contact and intensity of pressure and then accusing me of being a cold fish (which may even be a compliment, coming from a cat).
That said, I’m perfectly happy to hug a tree – I recognise a kindred spirit in something prickly that’s rooted to the spot. Lots of people hug trees and don’t expect a reciprocal squeeze. So the health benefits of hugging strike me as relative to the occasion and inclination.
Hugging is one consonant away from mugging
When it comes the group hug beloved of sporting huddles and team-building exercises, I was always the anti-clutch bag, leaving fellow team members to muse that, if she’s this lacking in esprit de corps, she’ll be flamin’ useless when it comes to making a life raft out of tooth picks. My preferred MO here was to fake a jellyfish sting, stare intently at an incoming text or recall my recent brush with shingles.
However, if physical demonstrativeness was indicative of depth of feeling, there would be no such thing as romantic poetry.
So when I am hailed by a hugger, evasive manoeuvres are instinctive rather than a calculated snub: she swoops, she dives, she collides with an earlobe and U-turns into an air kiss! Then apologises and mumbles, ‘sorry, I’m no good at hugging,’ as if it’s quantum physics or open-cast mining.
Indeed, natural diffidence, just like physical inhibition, can often mask the true intensity of feelings. When I met one of my heroes, Seamus Heaney, at a poetry reading, I doubt he expected a show of hands upon his revered person, but neither could he have anticipated a total stranger to flap around like a landed fish, wheeze a few incoherent syllables and then, as he politely enquired as to their interest in his work, deftly impersonate a petrified forest.
Still, I like to think he appreciated my restraint in not throwing an arm around his neck, planting a wet smacker on his cheek and getting him in a half-nelson for a selfie. Huggers of infamy, take note – and a step back.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, there is now cuddle therapy administered by ‘cuddle professionals’, and I’m sure it’s efficacious in a similar way to laughter therapy (which I’ve had a brief go at, booming, as directed, from my diaphragm, in an effort to sound more like Brian Blessed. I wasn’t a natural at that, either – shocker). Tbh, a slight twitch of my cheek is my version of clutching my sides and guffawing.
Of course, looking into the dim and distant, there may come a time when I’ll wish I’d clutched more people and fewer bars of Toblerone to my bosom, but I’m happy to cross that bridge (and my arms) when I come to it. In the meantime, please be assured that as I gesture to you from the sidelines, I’ll be waving, not frowning.
No posts
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.