Limp handshakes and wimpy hugs

I dig a strong handshake. Mine is a point of pride, and I always extend my hand with intention and strength. I don’t get folks who place their hand in mine and sort of just leave it lying there, so I can hold their flaccid mitt. If I wanted a dead fish in my hand, I’d be down at Pike Place Market flirting with the fishmongers. If you are going to shake my hand, press the flesh like you mean business. I don’t care if you have sweaty palms, raggedy cuticles, or aphephobia. I do care if you washed after peeing. If you can't muster up the energy to grip my hand and give it a few pumps, rest assured I’m going to curl that hand up and steer it in the direction of your face. So much for your fear of being touched. Touch my fist, friend.

And if you’re going to hug me, press your body against me properly so I can hook my leg around your ass. That’s just good form. Don’t lean in and pat me on the back without actually making contact with me. It either indicates that 1) I smell (which is clearly ridiculous), 2) you are afraid of my boobs (which is possible), or 3) you hate the idea of human contact. Embrace intimacy, embrace me. I won’t bite (unless I really like you).

(Photo: http://adsoftheworld.com/media/print/casall_sports_products_the_fishy_handshake)