The Confession of the Handshakes

I cannot shake hands.

 

That is, I cannot shake hands in any modified, rhythmic, newfangled, new-angled method NOT utilized by old school white guys since, oh, forever.

 

I’m sorry. Sort of.

 

***

 

I trace the origins of this problem back to junior high. Admittedly, I can’t remember anything specifically related to handshakes occurring in junior high; it’s just my policy to blame the 7^th grade for lots of stuff.

 

***

 

“Hi. My name is Brian, and I’m a shake-aphobic.”

 

“Hi Brian!”

 

I’d say the first time I realized I had a problem was when I worked at Hasting’s Records. Seems that, for some reason, if you work in a record store, you’re expected to be a little bit cool.

 

And I was, but I guess you’re expected to be a little cooler than ME.

 

So I had this regular customer named Rog. Not Roger, as his birth certificate would have surely indicated, but ROG.

 

Rog.

 

Let’s get this straight: Rog was a nice guy. Really. Good to talk to, fun to be around… nice cat. Had a mini-mullet workin’, wore white pants a lot… it was the 80s, man.

 

But Rog insisted on shaking my hand when he saw me. And I mean, he came at me with his right hand dangling at about nose-level, fingers pointing downward like he was operating an imaginary marionette.

 

He’d pause there, waiting for me to… reciprocate? Participate? I’d stare at him for just a moment, wondering if he was casting a hex upon my unlaced Pony high-tops.

 

Then I’d make an attempt.

 

Sometimes we’d miss altogether. When we connected, it was awkward to say the least. Fingers in the wrong places, hands meeting at surely the wrong point in their respective trajectories… Once while his hand hovered up there I offered him the straight up, vertically positioned handshake option. He misinterpreted what I was doing and tried for his slick variation anyway. Let’s just say it wasn’t exactly a three-point landing.

 

And I’d laugh, get kinda flustered, and he’d jam his hands down in his pockets and nod (he was always nodding) and stand with even worse posture, ready to put it behind us and get to chatting. “Hey man, have you heard that new White Lion cassette?”

 

He never stopped trying. Sometimes I dreaded encountering him, and other times I just went with the awkward laugh.

 

***

 

Rog was merely the first of many. Oh, I’ve gotten a little better at it. I can usually manage to intercept a moving slap handshake at some point, give it a good squeeze and follow up with an arm pat. It’s not pretty, it’s not natural, and I believe it’s actually forbidden somewhere in Deuteronomy. Let me get back to you on that.

 

But now there’s a new variation: The slap handshake-chest-half-hug. Have you seen this? You grab their hand, pull them forward forcefully, slap their back and bounce off of each other.

 

I haven’t successfully done it yet. The guys who DO want to do this with me are good cats, guys who have appropriately determined that yes, I would like to share an embrace.

 

But like Rog, they haven’t figured out that I have no technique for this. I’m back to square one now, completely at a loss as to what to do when offered this option.

 

I do believe I should move to Tokyo, since I think I could live with bowing.

 

***

 

Guys, have mercy on a poor nerd like me. I am fully aware of the depth and breadth of my geekitude. If you share similar experiences/concerns, give me a holler. Maybe we’ll form a support group.