Random me fact no. 15

If we were ever to meet in person, I would very likely give you a hug and affectionately pat you on the shoulder. If you're female, I would also very likely lean in to touch cheeks with you (twice: right then left) and accompany them with discreet smacking sounds. No matter who you are, I would, however, only reluctantly shake hands with you. Because I hate, hate shaking hands.

It's not as personal as you might think. (Meaning that it's not caused by something specific to a particular person.) Your hands could be of a surgeon's cleanliness, dutifully manicured and with their neatly rounded fingernails giving out a healthy sheen, but I would still have to make a conscious effort to extend my hand to you. (Being a woman, it's unfortunately up to me to offer my hand to men and younger women.) I don't know where the discomfort comes from, but to me, touching the palm of someone else's hand with mine presents an act of almost unbearable intimacy. It's not always pleasant to be confronted with the unexpected substance of someone else's handshake: some hands are sweaty and podgy (whose moist richness feels somehow inappropriate), others slip through your fingers like dead eels (making you wonder whether the person intended to shake your hand at all), others yet crush your bones in a manifestation of strength and ardour (a very dear friend of mine has a handshake like that), while some hands' hard iciness betrays an innate aloofness (such as mine). Only very few hands, you might have noticed, are actually pleasant to the touch: radiant with human warmth and vibrant energy (my mother’s, for instance).

And that's not everything! Think about all the things we do with our hands: all the objects we touch and all the buttons we press in a single day! The thought is disturbing enough to make me want to rub a refreshing dollop of disinfectant gel between my palms right now. And actually, that's what I've been unconsciously doing after shaking hands with people. I noticed it recently when someone stepped into my office to talk to my colleague, and I got up to greet them and, naturally, shook their hand. What I realised after a few seconds was that, immediately after sitting back down at my desk, I automatically reached for my disinfectant gel and started applying it with the nonchalance of an ape while the person was still inside the room. As the smell of apple-scented alcohol filled the air, I froze in realisation of what I’d committed. The sign outside my office should say ‘Beware of the Oaf’.