Hug It Out

I am a hugger.

I hug everyone and everything. Trees. My knees. Corners. I am indiscriminate and often inappropriate in my hugging.

I have hugged potential bosses on job interviews, the locksmith that AAA called to jimmy open my car door and the deli supervisor at my local Giant grocery store--ya'll, she ordered thick-sliced peppered bacon just for me. C'mon.

So, some of you may realize that I'm at at one of the world's driest, most conservative conventions EVER. It's a bunch of investors. This is not to say it isn't enjoyable or there aren't good people here, but there's a reason we use the term "suit" to describe an uptight individual (i.e. not prone to hugging).

Basically, this week is about hob-schmoozzling with a bunch of billionaire, white guys. I don't mind--I can hang with anybody, and good people is good people, whether you've got $3 in your pocket or $3 billion. The majority of them know me from past shows and understand that I am going to hug them no matter what.

Most of them embrace it (pun totally intended, kiddos). They fall into my bosom with a sigh of relief; in my heels, I tower over most of these guys.

A few, though, sort of brace themselves and go rigid as I approach. For those uncomfortable with my hugging, I have tried to modify it with a two-handed shake, but then I still lean in a la Carson Daly welcoming P Diddy to TRL, touching my shoulder to the chests of their Armani suits. (I know Carson Daly doesn't do TRL any more, kids, but I don't know the names of any of MTV's new spiky-haired whippersnappers, okay?)

As I was giving a particularly good hug to one of our guys tonight, it struck that I might be a little too soft for corporate America. Over his shoulder, I looked out at the sea of black pinstripes, and I suddenly felt very out of place in my kicky lavender suit.

In the Comments section, tell me if you like hugs. I will gladly give a hug to anyone to who wants it.