Hug Mug Slug

I am not a hugger. I hug people I sincerely wish to hug, not those I have to according to a passé tradition that is now a mere gesture and means nothing. I won't even touch the subject of the comedic air kiss. But there are times when the hugging routine becomes fodder for foolish women desperate for affection and who see the event as recompense for their lonely married lives.  I think of a particular woman I met for the first time at a dinner party the other day. As my date and I entered the house, she flew at my man, arms out-stretched and crawled up his front to plant kisses all over his face while groaning and grabbing. Shocked, I waited some time for her slobbering to stop. I think she was setting a world record for holding and if on a rugby field, would have received a penalty. Should I have been the ref, it would be a yellow card at least. I was embarrassed for her. And her husband must also have been, as he stood in the audience trying to appear amused. When the attack was over, I promised myself that next time, I would have to take action. Ordinarily, I am lady-like, but I could see that my role of being a polite individual that my mother would be proud of, would have to change. Various scenarios entered my mind as we crunched our way through dinner, this kisser woman being seated next to my date while I was located at the other end of the table via those horrid name-tag thingies. I fancied next time she went at my date, a long hat pin directed to a location low on her horizon or perhaps a sharp pinch to her inner arm, the one raised to my date's shoulder would be effective. Then again, perhaps my pointy-toe shoe might do damage in the shin area of her skinny shank. While that wouldn't be subtle enough, maybe a stray ice-cube down her backless dress to cool her ardour may work. No that is messy. So is a glass of red wine, but no that would spoil her boring pret-a-porter dress. I thought if I stood by the display and held up my watch and counted the seconds or took a photo on my i phone,  that might quell her desperations. Alas, at the end of the evening, as we all bid each other farewell,  there she was again doing her 20 second smooch and all I did was suffer blandly, the picture of decorum. If you have any better ideas, I would love to hear them. For next time.