There’s something about the shorter days and cold nights that makes you want to snuggle up and get comfy. With winter comes early sunsets and specialty drinks at Starbucks, as well as a strong desire to drink warm beverages, buy fuzzy socks, and sometimes, snuggle up to a brand new boo.
Unless you’re me and the idea of being hugged is enough to give you the shivers—and not in a good way.
I struggled with my romantic identity for years before realizing the intense distaste I felt for romantic touch wasn’t just me being frigid or antisocial. I came to realize that I hated holding hands, cuddling, even being called a pet name because I am aromantic. You know that A in LGBTQIA? Yup, that one’s mine.
Aromanticism is separate from asexuality–though the two are closely related–and share the same letter in the aforementioned acronym. Aromanticism in particular has its own wide spectrum with various identities, but I won’t get into the nitty gritty of that just yet—that’s a whole ‘nother article. We’ll stick to the very basics, and I’ll tell you about me.
I had played around with the idea of being “something else” since high school, when finding a date was the furthest thing on my mind when prom came around. Years before that I’d already made it clear to concerned relatives that I was “focusing on my studies” when asked if there was anyone special in my life. In reality, I had no strong pull to any of the pimple-ridden guys in my grade, and felt it a waste of time in my quest to get into a good school. That combined with the fact that I was and still am pretty touch averse led to my not actually dating someone until I was nineteen.
We worked together, and I thought he was funny, sweet, attentive, and, best of all, trustworthy, which is a trait that I find incredibly appealing in all of my relationships. I asked him out at the beginning of December, right when I’d begun to start wearing thick tights under my dresses. It was smack dab in the middle of cuffing season.
As much as I liked him, more than anything I wanted to be his friend than his “girl.” I didn’t want to hold his hand, or stare into his eyes; I wanted to shoot zombies next to him in Call of Duty and see who could eat the most nachos. We still did those things, but being able to see the love in his eyes when I felt nothing of his affection is ultimately what killed our relationship two months later.
I won’t lie and say I’m unaffected by cuffing season. In fact, I often wonder if its part of the reason I went out with my ex when I’d never had the urge to take on a boyfriend before. Everything about him was sincere and comforting, and I wanted to feel just a modicum of his warmth.
Even now, when the sun sets at five and I curl up like a pillbug under two blankets and a throw, I wish I was sleeping next to someone. I know better now that this feeling doesn’t translate in the traditional way, with the nuanced song and dance that leads to coffee dates and movie nights. Now I know I’d be happier to leech the heat out of my roommate than a man who might think himself in love with me.
In a strange, twisted way, cuffing season is what led to me realizing that I’m aromantic. I have the winter months to thank for validating a large part of my identity.
Who’d a thunk?