Spinster friends, I didn’t know it still existed out there. I thought we were well beyond those days, that they’d died over 10 years ago along with my love of JC Chasez and sleeveless turtlenecks. And now that I’ve had a solid several weeks to recover, I think I’m ready to talk about it.
It’s the pelvic thrust hug. Or the PTH (you know I love a good acronym). What. The. Hell.
Oh, you know what this is. The date is going well and it’s time to say your goodbyes but you’re not quite ready for that first kiss so you go in for a quality hug. In my own mind I’m imaging a closer whiff of that nice aftershave scent I detected earlier. Then I’m thinking (with delight!) of the opportunity to smooth my hands across those man muscles that I saw rippling underneath that Ralph Lauren half-zip when you reached for your fork. Then, then! Just when you’ve both closed in and you think you’re at full (appropriate) hugging contact you detect a horrifying movement in the hip region. It’s like the guy’s hips are a Boeing 747 that overshot the runway and just kept going. They crossed the hugging plane into full PTH territory and there’s no going back.
I can’t imagine a worse buzz kill at the end of a date (ok, I can, but go with me on this). Just when I thought I was about to get a quality hug – WHAM! – man parts being thrust at me with nary an invitation. Gentlemen, this is just not acceptable. It’s wasn’t acceptable in high school either, but you were a bit more forgiven at that time. The hormones were a-ragin’ and it didn’t surprise me that the PTH was the only way some of the boys got any action when the rest of their free time was spent ogling Cobra Mustangs at the local car show. Even Hunky Hank with his shoulders of a Greek god (seriously you guys, best shoulders I’ve ever seen on a guy, as in I didn’t even know a shoulder could get me so worked up!) fell victim to the unfortunate PTH. Or rather, I fell victim to his PTH. I’m sure he was as happy as a clam.
The PTH should have died out when we were 18. It was the hug that belonged on extinction list of everything awkward from our teenage years and I’m pretty much horrified to discover it still exists. Gentlemen, don’t make me stick a flotation device around my hips just so I can keep my personal space. As much as I love Belle, she doesn’t go with anything in my wardrobe and would likely ruin the line of my Kate Spade skirt.