From Alphie to Muttsy: How a {Robot} Diagnosed My Problem with Hugs

Hi everybody, I’m turning 35 in a month and I still sleep with a stuffed animal.

Leave me alone. It’s fine.

His name is Muttsy, and he’s a flufforetriever, birthed in a Gund factory in Malaysia, a country I didn’t know existed in 1992 when I bought him. At 30 AMERICAN DOLLARS, Muttsy was a big investment for some little punk kid with no job. But I had been saving up the $2 weekly allowance I earned for doing chores while complaining. Lucky for me, I also had a $10 off birthday coupon from Fun Town, the mom and pop toy store in my town that surely Amazon has polished off by now.

Muttsy, in repose.

Go ahead. Call it weird. Tell me I’m too old for it. Tell me it’s childish.

The truth is, I’ve always slept with toys. Before Muttsy, I went with Claude, a teddy bear who wore a conspicuous floral bowtie. Before Claude, I cobbled together a foster family of foxes—Foxy Loxy, Foxy Boxy, and Foxy Soxy. Before the Foxies, another dog named Puddin’, and so on and so on.

So, while I understand that people grow up, change, etc., at this point, it would be extremely weird and unnecessary to change my habit.

But you’re the psych major: why don’t YOU tell me what it says about me? BUT BEFORE YOU DO, allow me to introduce you to another fun fact about me.

I don’t like hugs.

Well, the casual ones, at least. The hugs for no good reason. The hugs to say hello to someone you’ve already seen in the past year.

But wait. What do you mean you don’t like hugs?

I know that’s what you want to ask because I’ve heard the question a thousand times. And still, I don’t have a coherent response lined up. I should; it’s been years that I’ve felt this way about the casual embrace from too-familiar-for-my-liking acquaintances. And in my dummy shrugs and IDKs, they’ll empathetically wonder if I was ever abused or neglected. I guess that would explain and excuse my calloused response to human touch.

Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you nosy, tragedy-peddling creeps, but I wasn’t. I just don’t want your dangly, gangly appendages all over me.

But for some reason, unless it comes with some early childhood trauma, my desire to remain unmolested doesn’t satisfy the aspiring life coaches hoping to save me from myself. They keep wondering and judging and stretching out their meaty arms. To set me free by restraining me against my will.

At the heart of it, I get the sense that people are offended that I don’t want their affection.

They feel rejected and unworthy. And I understand that, which is why I’m often found inside the unwanted embrace of an acquaintance, just going with the flow so I don’t make it a whole fucking THING that we have to talk about and apologize for and now we’re not ready to order when the waiter comes to our table.

But what’s frustrating is that most people don’t understand the counterpoint, which is that I don’t want your dewy skin cells all over me. It’s pretty simple. I don’t know why I have to have a reason.

Besides, I don’t need some obligatory corporeal gesture to indicate that I like you—I’m comfortable saying that shit to your face.

I REALLY FUCKING LIKE YOU.

This is my body. What’s so interesting about it that you want to bring it inside your arm circle and smush my face into your chest cavity? I mean, I’ll do it just to make shit less awkward, but how is a limp squeeze any more caring than an enthusiastic high five?

WHY CAN’T WE JUST HIGH FIVE, FOR CRYING OUT CHIPS?

And how come nobody’s answering THAT question?

I don’t really know how to transition to my next point. But you’re the amateur shrink, so maybe you can use this awkward dead-end to ask me some kind of directive question. You know, something like:

Why is it that you don’t want hugs, but you have chosen to sleep with the same stuffed dog for 23 years?

OK, first of all, I already told you his name is Muttsy. There’s no need to be rude. Second of all, that ain’t even the worst of it. Doc, I used to sleep with Alphie too.

Oh, you don’t remember Alphie? Let trusted newswoman Joan Lunden remind you.

That’s right bitch! The same coldhearted snake that doesn’t want your hugs also slept with a boxy plastic robot toy that made beeping and honking noises and taught me subtraction. Don’t get it twisted, I didn’t do any sex stuff with him, you weird gross barbarian.

ALPHIE AND I WERE JUST FRIENDS.

And unlike these grabby hug predators, Alphie respected my choice when I put him into the toy box for good. Don’t be disgusting—it was a literal toy box, where he lived until his batteries corroded or we sold him at a garage sale or gave him to the next kid in the hand-me-down chain.

I still give out hugs. Happily, even. I just prefer to be selective about who receives them and why. Because I want them to mean something. I want them to convey something unmistakable.

I missed you.

I love you.

I’m here for you.

I’m proud of you.

Giving out affection all willy-nilly feels careless and discounts those times that you really need or want it. It’s not some catholic or Catholic denial, it’s simply an endowment. When I initiate a hug, chances are I really mean it.

So don’t act like I’m some kind of monster. Even worse, some sad, damaged soul who must have a tormented backstory.

I’m just a prickly creature on the brink of 35, with a 23 year-old stuffed dog in a headlock. Now, goodnight.