I'm confused by the Cuddle Party trend that's sweeping across the nation, hons. A nation that is apparently so starved for touch, even from strangers, that people are putting on pajamas and showing up to cuddle and "spoon" with others in a "puppy pile."
I didn't pay much attention to this until I saw it had reached the South and then I had to sit up and say "Shazam!"
Aficionados say that Cuddle Parties are much better than some stodgy old dinner party. The only food that is served is a "Canoodle Casserole" which sounded promising until I realized this isn't anything involving cream of mushroom soup, just a lot of hugging and touching and laying on top of others.
I repeat, others that you don't know.
Now y'all know that if there's one thing I believe in, it's live and let live. OK, not really; this stuff is crazier'n a vacation to Mexico City.
The deal with Cuddle Parties is that, while drugs and alcohol are forbidden, they do encourage natural production of the "love drug," also known as oxytocin, a fabulous little mood-lifter our bodies produce during moments of deep personal pleasure, such as when we are experiencing excellent moonie goonie or while discovering a $185 Tahari silk blouse on sale for $35 at T.J. Maxx.
The brain makes no distinction, really. Pleasure is pleasure and if you can find yours at a closing-session "cuddle lasagna," who am to judge?
OK, sure I'm judging. It's weird.
And I'm sure that all you chronic cuddlers will write to tell me how wrong I am and a few of you may even invite me to a cuddle party.
And that is very nice but I have to wash my hair that night. What night? It doesn't freakin' matter.
All that fun isn't free, of course.
Admission is usually between $20 and $50 for a three-hour session.
The money helps pay for the "cuddle lifeguard" and "cuddle caddy" assistants. They're the ones who make sure nobody gets pervy.
They also start the party with ice breakers that aren't anything like the ones you may remember from Kiwanis.
Typical is the "cow tip" ice breaker in which all the p.j. wearing partygoers get on all fours, moo like cows and then "tip" into each other to start the giant cuddle.
I'm picturing the "cuddle caddy" having to excuse himself to go laugh hysterically outside for a few minutes at this point, perhaps after having documented it all on his cell phone to share with his buddies.
There are many rules: P.j.'s stay on, touching only with permission and no intimate touching.
That's all well and good, but I still think it's not a party unless you get to dress up fancy, eat unpronounceable goodies and drink something you can set on fire.
No binkies allowed.
