Palm woes

It meant free personality analysis by people who shook hands with me.

In a recent issue of a magazine, I read about the right way to give a handshake to make the right impression. Confident, maintain eye-contact, don’t shake for too long and no sweaty or wet palms. I read and re-read this a number of times. So, if I actually wet my hands with water or oil or glue, I assume I have the mental capacity to not offer the hand for a shake. Oh, but what do I do if I am cursed with sweaty palms?

I belong to that unfortunate category of people who sweat even in winter in their palms and feet. Besides the smelly socks during school days, it also meant keeping small hand towels below the palms when writing with ink pens. It also meant free personality analysis by most people who shook hands with me. Hey, you need more confidence. Quite the nervous type, aren’t you? Actually, till that point though I would be usually the epitome of self-confidence, as soon as a hand was extended in my direction, I would be a nervous wreck.

 So, when someone offered a handshake, I would start to make the palms dry by clutching a kerchief (hoping it would be absorbent) or on most days when I wouldn’t remember to carry one, I would rub the palms hurriedly on the side of the leg, before extending the hand. And then instead of getting a comment on the palm, I would have succeeded in getting the attention diverted to the leg, which was worse. Why don’t people just fold their hands and say Namaste the Indian way, so that in response, I do not get a free character analysis or leg scrutiny.

The sweaty cold palms have never failed eliciting a comment or a disgusted look at the minimum. Oh, how many times I have tried to think of excuses to refuse shaking hands. Parties, dinners, functions, get-togethers turned into nightmares where so many people unknowingly extended their hands.

Those who knew about the wet palms, don’t offer it to me a second time. During social occasions where human interaction in the form of handshake is most prevalent, for me the food plate turns out to be a saviour.

Other than constantly having a plate full of food in my hands during such times, nothing else seemed convincing enough to refuse a handshake.  But after resorting to this one unfailing tactic which seemed polite enough, the attention has now moved from my palms to my entire bloating self.  I am yet to come up with a convincing polite excuse to deny a handshake with a guarantee of zero side-effects.