The coronavirus has been sorely inhibiting. It's no fun for me to keep a distance from members of my family with whom I'm not podded up. But there's a benefit, because for a year now I haven't had a single anxiety attack over what a European acquaintance calls "the dreaded American hug." My needs for acknowledging friends and acquaintances have been well satisfied by an occasional and discreet elbow bump.
I'm not a hugger either by nature or by training — my family of origin was, well, whatever is the diametrical opposite of "touchy?"
When did the hug creep into our lives? I suspect it had its origins in late 60s early 70s counter-culture. At least in my social circles — that is. For all I know, the Brewsters might have regularly hugged the Bradfords back there in Mayflower days. Although not without massive attacks of disabling guilt.
When males want to hug me, I tend to shrink backwards. I don't want to give offense, so I offer as much hug as my hug-averse nature can tolerate. With women it's much more difficult — because of the bosom problem. Too quick an embrace and you're unsociable, but one that lasts a second too long and you're a pervert. The best solution, I've found, is the sideways hug — just throw an arm around the lady's shoulder and briefly touch your right ribcase to her left. And then beat a retreat.
Let's bring back the straight-on traditional handshake. It's sensible and proven. And for goodness sake, no kissing each other's cheeks "like them foreigners do."
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