A Hug Not Worth Remembering

     I've never claimed to be a hugging virtuoso,  but what happened about a month ago doesn't even qualify as pond scum.  The middle of winter can be quite brutal, and that particular night it was cold as I remember.  A female friend and I had just gotten out of a movie, and we were walking to her car.  I accompanied her to her car as a gentlemanly gesture, only to humiliate myself at the end of the stroll in such a way that only a true dunce could appreciate.
     As we arrived near her car, we stopped and talked for a minute or two.  Little did I know that there was a clumsy force inside me that was about to be unleashed.  I had decided that I wanted to hug her, as to avoid any embarrassing conclusion to the night.  I went in for the hug, and the product of my effort was a hybrid of a hug and a convulsion. I found myself doing the unthinkable:  the back-pat. 
     I must confess this instance was a repeat offense.  I recall at least one other time where the ever-ugly portion of my repertoire, the back-pat, came instinctively out of me.  This hug must have been colder than the air in which we were standing.  It would have been hard to identify if it was the cold or the embarrassment which turned my face red, but my hypothesis is the embarrassment.  I immediately acknowledged the error to my friend, to which she concurred.
    For a man who likes to give women a quality experience, the hug frankly was a first degree failure.