Today is National Hug Day. Props to folks who like hugging.

I am not a hugger. With the exception of my grandmother, I come from a long line of non-huggers. My grandfather would pat your head if you hugged him. My mother would back up if you approached and stick out her hand. My uncle—who to my childhood image was about 9 feet tall— would crane his neck and stare at the sky when I would pelt at him with my arms out.

That’s not to say we are completely no-touch. Family hugs are generally exempt. Nor are we all rude and stand-offish to non-family. We tolerate hugs; we just don’t do them. As my uncle put it, COVID was probably one of the best things that could have happened to us in terms of socially acceptable greetings. We are all far more amenable to an elbow bump.

I’m not quite as bad, I don’t think. I don’t mind being hugged. But it literally never occurs to me to hug someone else. I’m always on the responding side. And if someone doesn’t hug me, I don’t wonder if they’re waiting for me to initiate it. I don’t wonder at all. I just wave and go blithely on my way—for all I know, leaving a trail of wounded huggers in my wake.

I just asked my husband if he would consider himself a hugger. “Only of you,” he said. My son: “Nope, not a hugger.” So I guess the pattern continues—although up until he was about 11 and got too horrified by it, I would have smooshed that kid all the livelong day if he would have sat still for it. Maybe that’s what turned him off from them.

I do have an exception, and it’s probably the same one most non-huggers would cite: Any dog gets big squeezes. Most cats get smooshes. I’d probably hug otters and bears and wolves and lions given a chance, and then I would die or be maimed.

How about you? If you’re a hugger, what’s the appeal?