I walked into the gym bright and early, trying to beat this oppressive heat wave at its own game.
I like to sweat on my own terms.
Just inside the opening to the room where they keep the torture devices, weight machines, I spotted a young, ginger haired man wearing a loud purple t-shirt with the words Ima Hugger on the front. It took me a minute to figure out if that was a persons name, some obscure fraternity babble—or a mission statement.
Just one look at the guy’s cheerful, bubbly demeanor assured me it was the latter.
“Oh mah gawd, I’m a hugger too!” I declared, arms outstretched.
“Incoming!” That’s the warning my husband and I give each other when unexpected hugging breaks out.
It’s only polite.
Speaking of polite, I know people who say it’s rude to hug someone without their permission. Seriously? Get over yourself.
I see you looking at the ground or pretending you’re on the phone. Trust me when I say that I can read your body language and I’ll never force myself on you. You are probably an introvert. I’m Kryptonite to introverts.
Besides, no one likes to hug a corpse.
Anyway…I digress…
Completely taken aback and drenched in sweat, (which is not a great combination) My new ginger-pal put down the handles of the heavy, stainless steel, arm-stretchy thing he was pulling as exercise, and we came together in an awkward public display of affection among strangers.
“Sorry, I probably smell,” he cautioned as we patted each other on the back like we were dislodging large chunks of food that had stuck in our throats.
“That’s okay,” I replied. “I’m about to peel the paint right off these walls with my odiferous-ness!”
We both laughed. So did the old man on the rowing machine.
As ginger-hugger turned around to resume his workout, he stopped for a second, his face awash in nostalgia.
“You know, I miss that. Nobody hugs here.”
“Here, like at the gym?” I asked because he was right about that. That only happens at the fancy, pick-up joints on the Westside that masquerade as gyms.
“No. I mean, I’m from the east coast and we hug it out—ALL THE TIME.”
“Seriously?” I said, finding it hard to believe that the hard scrabble, city folk on the east coast hug more than here in LaLa Land.
We even have a reputation as tree huggers.
Case in point. Here is my brother on a recent visit to LA hugging my tree. It’s genetic.
“I’m from LA, born and raised”, I said, “But when I’m in a foreign country and I say to people “Bring it in—I’m a hugger”, everyone, and I mean EVERYONE says “Oh, you must be from California!
I’m pretty sure it’s the only sentence I know in Mandarin.”
“It’s true!” he insisted. “Maybe it’s strictly a LA thing and it doesn’t bode true for the rest of California?”
“That could be it,” I agreed. “A lot of LA acts like it is way too cool for school.”
“It’s a virtual No Hug Zone“, he chimed in.
We both nodded in agreement. So did the lady on the stair-stepper thingy that you will NEVER catch me on.
He went back to his arm pulling and I mounted the elliptical apparatus like a boss.
But I couldn’t help but feel a little sad about the Hugging Ginger’s LA experience. I wanted to apologize for our aloofness and fear of showing affection.
After my heart rate came down to something sustainable, and I had beat the urge to vomit—I realized the aversion to hugging was just a phase. It’s not the locals who are afraid to hug, it’s the transplants. The beautiful people from Peoria and Poughkeepsie who have all found themselves here and are unaware of our customs. I know they worry about looking cool and fitting in so I’m sure hugging was one of the first things that they crossed off their list. After they threw away their crocks.
But then somebody like my beautiful, Hugging Ginger Man comes to town and breaks the mold.
I love that. Don’t you?
To all of you huggers out there…
Carry on,
xox
