When I was a little kid, I would fasten myself to the legs of guests like a koala toy clipped onto a pencil. I have always been an affectionate person. I have learnt to quash this affectionate part of myself. Somehow, I picked up that it wasn't socially acceptable to be too demonstrative in public. For years I had a boyfriend who wouldn't hold my hand in public. That was some damage right there. And then I started becoming my self. Not too anything - just perfectly me. It takes us a while to get there in a judgemental world - especially woman. Too fat, too loud, too talkative, too huggy. You have to work hard at shedding those judgements to become you. And when you do, it's liberating. You feel at last that people either love you for you, or they don't, and that's okay. Maybe they aren't your people. Not everyone has to be.

^{Image Source}

So I owned my affectionate nature. I am the kind of person who will hug you when I first meet you. I always admired that French style greeting of kisses on the cheek - so beautifully intimate. Australians can be so distant. Even my Dad doesn't really hug me - just closes his arms around me when I come at him and jokes to get off. That's him - he expresses his love with words and actions. Hugs? Not so much.

In this strange world we're told to be physically distant, lest we quite literally spread the plague. And yet, in the United Kingdom, when I first saw my ex brother in law after not seeing him for six years? We looked at each other, laughed, and said 'fuck it', and he wrapped his arms around me in a huge hug. He has diabetes and is meant to be shielding, as they call it there. But as he says, life doesn't stop because the government tells you it has to. He has a business to run.

^{Image Source}

For months in the UK, I'm not able to see friends that I haven't seen in years. When they ease restrictions slightly, we go to see some of our best friends, meeting them and their kids at the beach. When I see them, my heart melts. And you can tell someone else is melting too, by the look in their eyes. He's waiting for me to make a decision, and I do, embracing him. He laughs. 'We knew you'd hug, Kyls', he says. And that feels good, because they know me, and they love me, and it's their instinct to hug too. Claire and I do a theatrical hug, rubbing breasts and giggling. It's been a while, and her boobs are spilling out of her swimmers, so how can I resist?

Returning to Australia, I worry that I won't be able to hug my parents. I message them from hotel quarantine and say I'll see them first so there will be no real danger. Of course they're worried. I get that. Dad's just gone through a couple of years of cancer treatment. They're healthy, but Dad in particular is of the opinion that you do what the 'experts' say - if they say physically distance, do so. My mother in law was the same. It took months for her to hug her own son. I'm sitting on my folks doorstep when they arrive home. Mum gets out of the van and runs towards me, her arms spread, being intentionally cinematically dramatic, as if I'm her long lost daughter returning from her adventures (which I kinda am) and hugs me. Dad does his usual quick hug and 'get off' routine, but I hold him tight on purpose and joke that I'm giving him the plague. He pushes me away and crosses his fingers over in a mock sign of the cross.

At my sisters, it's my oldest nephew and brother in law who greet me and we hug. Lucky my sister wasn't there to see - she's waiting by the fire, and she won't hug. She's adamant. She tells me she'll bump elbows as if that's a substitute. I don't mind - I respect her boundaries. She's not a hugger anyway - she never has been. In some ways I like this world that allows people to say that they don't hug. Some people must hate the social pretence of hugging when it's not something they enjoy. Slowly, I start figuring this new normal of hugging out. Maybe it's not so bad. There's people that will hug, and if they don't want to, they won't. And I won't die if I don't hug - I'll just survive off the hugs I do get.

^{Image Source}

I believe with all my heart that you can't catch a virus off someone with a quick hug, the face turned sideways. You get it from prolonged contact with people with a virus. I don't think I've ever caught anything off anyone from a hug - a long cuddle with my nephews on the couch when they've got a cold or being in a classroom for hours with kids, sure. But a hug? I'm not going to live in fear because I'm told that such loving exchanges between human beings are no longer a thing. I'll respect the boundaries of others, but if you're a hugger, I'm coming in for my share.

It's even nice to be asked. When I call in on a neighbour I feel odd crossing the threshold of his house. I haven't been in someone's house like this in four months and my whole body is feeling the superimposed boundaries that laws have placed on it. It's like walking through a forcefield. I tell him about my trepidation and we talk about the whole hug thing, and how strange that is. We talk about people's fears, and boundaries, and the risks we take to be human sometimes. I am reminded of the woman on the plane from Delhi to England, crying her heart out because she was leaving her family behind and didn't know when she'd see them again. We're all on the plane wearing masks and gloves and it's three days after the pandemic was announced, so everyone's nervous, but she's crying, and my instinct is to hug her. I'm not watching people's suffering and not doing anything because I've been told to be scared. She's so grateful for the gesture she will email me months later to say how much it meant to her in a world where people are scared of each other. I feel upset talking about this moment. He asks if I want a hug, and that human gesture makes me sob. 'Yes!' I said. And I'm wrapped in arms and feel the warmth between us and it makes me happy. These human exchanges are everything.

Visiting my friend at her yoga studio in town, I'm greeted with namaste hands - it's a gesture I like the best. The elbow bump is just weird. The hands at the heart greet you in a heartfelt way. It's the eyes again, though, that give it away. An awkward exchange, a dance. We are assessing each other. I know from online exchanges her whole studio is surveilled to make sure they're following sanitation and ten people a class rules, and that she gets mysterious phonecalls from people she suspects are from government agencies, making sure she's adhering to guidelines. A studio across town got fined as someone saw three people in there that weren't socially distanced. The risk is less the virus, and more the powers that be. She quips it's like Gilead - like A Hand Sanitiser's Tale. We can go on pretending it's not, and being frogs in ponds, but the reality is we are being watched - whether it's your neighbour or the police. You have to take your freedoms where you can.

'Are we doing this?' she asks. She's trembling with love.

'Of course, Sal', I say. 'I'm a hugger.'

This post is in response to Ecotrain's Question of the Week, which asks us how we feel about hugging in this time of a pandemic of fear, surveillance, and a virus. You can read about it here.