Hug Phobia

At the end of every Wednesday night service, our youth pastor wraps things up by telling us to stick around as long as we want to talk and hang out. I think to myself, Sure why not? I mean I don’t have anywhere to be, and I don’t have any homework. I might as well stick around and fellowship.

But our youth pastor doesn’t always end with just that. No, what he says next ruins my fellowshipping plans. He delivers six words: “Hug 10 people before you leave.” The words seem to fall from his mouth in slow motion. 

I glance to my left and my right, and I pretend to pop my back with a twisting motion. One might wonder, Maddie why on earth do you do these things?

And the answer? I’m carefully scanning the room for the best escape route. This may seem anti-social, rude and socially awkward. It’s probably all three of those things, but at that point my AHI (awkward- hugger-instincts) kick in and I can’t override them.

Don’t get me wrong.

I enjoy hugs . . . from certain people . . . mostly my close friends, family and the elderly.

The Strategy
The second our pastor is done talking, my plan begins. I reach down in my purse and check my phone, pretending that I missed an important call or just received a text that changed life as I knew it. At this point most people are on their second hug. 

The next part of the plan is crucial. I must locate my target— the exit door—and proceed to it without hesitation. If I hesitate, I could find myself in an embrace with any number of people.

So I keep my eyes on the target, and I move out. As I walk away, I often hear a voice calling my name. It’s usually a hug-happy acquaintance who has targeted me as his/her lucky hug number seven hug.

What I have to do is rude and not in my true nature. I must completely ignore the voice and keep moving. One pause and the plan is ruined. Hopefully this person will think I’m hard of hearing— or if the first part of the plan was carried out properly—I’ll appear to be in a deep phone conversation. 

OK, now I’m at the home stretch. At this point I’m usually talking to myself in order to avoid an anxiety attack. I say things in my head such as, You’re almost there. Or, You’re OK, Maddie, the glow of the exit sign is mere feet away. 

Now What?
Sometimes things go wrong. A youth worker comes out of nowhere, and my elaborate plan is compromised. This worker has usually already completed her 10 hug quota for the night but is feeling ambitious.

I know God has called us to love our neighbor and this sweet,   youth worker is just following that call, but I have a complex: A serious case of hug phobia, and I know of no cure. If there is one, it must not yet be FDA approved.

Now the youth worker is looking at me and assuming the universal position that means hug me precious child—not for my sake but for yours. Her arms are stretched out with a slight bend, her head is tilted to the side, and a closed-lip smile is pressed onto her face.

I brace for the embrace, and I feel the youth worker’s arms wrap around me. My body is tense, and I force my arms to squeeze the hugger’s body ever so slightly. Because if I don’t hug back at all, she’ll think I’m rude. And if I squeeze too tightly it only encourages her to keep hugging. 

Sigh

If the youth worker hugs me too long, it’s time for the “its over pat.” This is where I gently pat her on the back as if to say that was nice, but by all means feel free to let go now.

Maybe someday, I’ll be able to get over my complex. Perhaps, many years from now—many hugs from now—I’ll be that youth worker giving love through my hugs even when some don’t reciprocate.
 
Maddie Privott is now a college student but has fond memories of days in her high school youth group. She’s currently living in Nashville.