Hugs

I miss hugs.

I’m not even talking about being touch-starved because of COVID, either, though that is also certainly a thing. I’m talking, full body contact, chins on each other’s shoulders, arms wrapped tight, feeling each other’s heartbeat hugs. Rhythmic syncing of breathing hugs. Every thing in the world is going to be okay because I have you. Here. In this moment. Hugs. Swapping body heat and comfort and love hugs.

The good shit.

I’ve been told I give great hugs. I didn’t used to. My household was not a hugging family at all. No touchy. In junior high, I’d watch the girls hug each other hello, even though they’d seen each other scarcely two hours ago before lunch, and think: I want that. So over time, I let myself do that. And I confirmed what I’d suspected all along:

HUGS FUCKING RULE.

I miss them so much. I miss the touch. I miss the ritual of it. I miss standing in front of J and throwing my arms around his neck, him wrapping his arms around my ribcage and squeezing until my spine popped. I miss the kind of hugs where the other person runs their hands over your back.

Proper hugs are another thing ALS took from me. You can not hug someone properly from a wheelchair. You get a cheek touch, clumsy arms around your shoulders while you try not to stick your face in their cleavage.  Awkward.  They’re still good because they’re still hugs!  But they’re not GREAT hugs.

Being in a chair is lonely. Being in a chair in a pandemic is hell. I miss hugs.

If you can, today, give someone a hug for me. Get you some of that good, good oxytocin shit. Aww yiss. Hugs fucking rule. Have one on my behalf and improve your day. 

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