A Condition Called Huggin’

Turns out affection runs in the family — and it might just be contagious.

I’m a hugger. Always have been.

I get it from a very loving woman named Grace — a.k.a. my mom. She was a hugger in the truest sense. And she wasn’t the only one — I guess my whole family came wired that way. Hell, some of them will kiss you right square on the mouth — male or female — they don’t care. You walk in the door, you’re getting greeted like you just returned from active duty, even if you only went to get the mail.

If I like you, I like you. And if I do, I’m gonna hug you.

Just the other day, me and the band of merry misfits I call my friends were at the local pub — and we shall dub that pub Glover Park Brewery. It’s our unofficial town hall. Same bar stools, same smiling faces pouring our drinks, same jokes and lies told every week — just with a new twist.

As each of us wanders in, there’s a ritual: a hug, a cheek peck, and at least one complaint about the parking. Same thing when one of us leaves — hug, pat on the back, maybe a “love ya” for good measure — though by then it’s usually with the coordination of two bumper cars.

The other day, one of the ladies at the brewery — I won’t name names, but let’s call her Julie — said, “You give the best hugs.” And I said, “Yeah, I do.”

Not out of arrogance — okay, maybe a little — but really, it’s because I hug like I mean it.

When I hug someone, it’s a full-on, two-armed, no-half-ass, soul-press. I might linger a second or two. Not in a creepy way — don’t go calling HR — just long enough for the message to get through: you matter to me.

See, there’s a difference between a touch and a hug. A touch is physics. A hug is emotion.
And you can feel the difference.

Of course, I know some folks get awkward about hugs — the side-huggers, the pat-and-release crowd, the people who look like they’re trying to defuse a bomb. Relax. You’re safe. I just want you to know somebody cares that you exist. I promise I won’t dip you.

We should all hug more. Tell people we love them more. Be friendlier. Kinder. Smile. Loosen the grip on our phones and tighten the one on each other.

My spouse wasn’t a hugger when we met. Neither was his family. They were polite, wave-from-a-distance folks — the kind who consider a firm handshake “intimate.”

But after a multi-season Hallmark marathon of unsolicited affection — otherwise known as my family — he didn’t stand a chance. Somewhere between the third group hug and the eighth “love ya, sugar,” he cracked.

Now he’s a hugger. And it’s spreading. Some of his family have caught it too. One of them even initiated the hugging last Christmas — startled himself so bad he had to sit down.

Turns out, huggin’s contagious.

That, my friends, is a Condition worth catchin’.

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