You know that bit in mass where the priest says "Let us offer one another a sign of peace"? I hate that bit. I spend every massy minute up to it consumed by dread. The awkward handshakes. The awkwardier hugs. I always seem to offer my sign of peace to the wrong people at the wrong time; I'm left with my hand outstretched, waiting for my turn. Feeling diminished, and a little ashamed, I turn puce.
I don't know why. I'm affectionate. I like handshakes. I love hugs.
Last night I stood wobbly-lipped in the Jaffa Cake's kitchen, trying to explain to him why I hate New Year's Eve. It's because it's just like that handshakey bit at mass, only with kisses and a countdown. It makes me want to hide behind the couch. It's a difficult point to make without sounding like a mentler, especially when you're the sort who gets uppity about Wicklonians not even saying hello to you when they pass you on the beach.
So I sat there with my cheeks reddening in dire anticipation. Acutely aware of their rougeness, of the rash creeping across my collarbone. Hideous in my irrational emotional discomfort. My icy hands betrayed me; I pleaded tiredness to excuse my heat-radiating face. When his sister checked the time to make sure that we wouldn't miss the countdown, I bit back my blind panic. When I couldn't (wouldn't? Or just plain didn't?) get up from the couch as the clock struck midnight, she hugged me warmly and wished me a Happy New Year.
I hugged her in return, and I meant it. Fading to pale, I retired to bed, grateful for the generosity and patience she (and he) affords me.
I don't know why. I'm affectionate. I like handshakes. I love hugs.
Last night I stood wobbly-lipped in the Jaffa Cake's kitchen, trying to explain to him why I hate New Year's Eve. It's because it's just like that handshakey bit at mass, only with kisses and a countdown. It makes me want to hide behind the couch. It's a difficult point to make without sounding like a mentler, especially when you're the sort who gets uppity about Wicklonians not even saying hello to you when they pass you on the beach.
So I sat there with my cheeks reddening in dire anticipation. Acutely aware of their rougeness, of the rash creeping across my collarbone. Hideous in my irrational emotional discomfort. My icy hands betrayed me; I pleaded tiredness to excuse my heat-radiating face. When his sister checked the time to make sure that we wouldn't miss the countdown, I bit back my blind panic. When I couldn't (wouldn't? Or just plain didn't?) get up from the couch as the clock struck midnight, she hugged me warmly and wished me a Happy New Year.
I hugged her in return, and I meant it. Fading to pale, I retired to bed, grateful for the generosity and patience she (and he) affords me.
