America’s doctor, Dr. Anthony Fauci, is recommending that we abandon the custom of shaking hands. I, for one, couldn’t be happier.
I admit my enthusiasm is about something more than just stopping the spread of coronavirus and other germs. It’s because I have sweaty hands. I suffer from a lifelong medical condition called hyperhidrosis, which causes my palms to sweat profusely.
Just how sweaty are my hands? Well, it would be an absurd understatement to use the word “clammy.” Let’s just say that from an early age, I knew I would never grow up to be an electrician. My pet hamster had chronically damp fur. My dream of becoming a gymnast was cut short in sixth grade when I tried the balance beam; there was not enough chalk in the universe to keep my hands dry. I actually slipped on a dismount and broke two bones in my arm.
I spent my childhood terrified that my teachers would instruct the class, “Let’s all hold hands and make a big circle.” And somehow those teachers always, and I mean always, did. Even now I’d rather fall flat on my face than steady myself by grabbing on to someone’s hand.
Hyperhidrosis is a difficult condition to live with, one that requires evasion, shame and a boatload of paper towels. For years, I struggled with even simple tasks. When I wrote, the paper would stick to my hand and get smudged, and the books I read always looked as though I’d dropped them in the bathtub. I wore fabrics that were absorbent because before shaking someone’s hand, I would subtly press my palm on my thigh. Why, I often wondered, is there no such thing as terrycloth pants?
Nobody is sure what causes hyperhidrosis. But I stopped worrying so much about it 12 years ago when I learned there’s a treatment. Botox can be injected into the fingers and the palms of the hands, and then, poof, dry hands.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, injecting Botulinum toxin under the skin stops the sweating almost completely. It kicks in after about a week, and the result is nothing short of miraculous. The first time I reached for my husband’s hand — and then held it for a count of three, four, five — I started laughing, and then I cried. We walked together, fingers clasped, for the very first time.
It’s an effective treatment, but a painful one. Consider getting your finger pricked for a blood draw. Now imagine having that particular pain, only worse, about 40 times on each palm, the body part with one of the highest concentrations of tactile nerve receptors. The hands require about 10 times as many injections as one needs to treat crow’s feet.
That is to say, the shots really, really hurt. Nevertheless, I endure dozens of needle jabs while I sit completely still, one densely innervated hand resting on a Chux pad, the other holding a bag of ice. After my doctor finishes injecting my left hand, she moves on to the right.
By the time she’s done, my palms are black and blue and look like a pincushion, with neat little rows of red dots. After the bruising fades, my hands become slightly weak, a side effect I accept in exchange for the joy of liking my hands.
Unfortunately, the effects of Botox wear off over time, so I have to undergo this treatment several times a year. If I don’t get it done in time, I again face the shame of sweaty hands.
Somewhere between 1 percent and 3 percent of the population has palmar hyperhidrosis, so I’m not alone. It’s a physical problem that often has an inextricable emotional component: When my hands sweat, my anxiety increases; when my anxiety is high, my hands sweat.
Ingrained in our society is the belief that the handshake is sacred. My parents taught my sisters and me that a handshake should be strong, in order to convey strength of character. Mine was weak and soggy, and I hated what that conveyed.
The prospect of shaking hands with someone fills me with dread, a first impression gone wrong, the outing of an ugly secret I don’t want to share. It’s agonizing to watch as people flinch at your touch, draw back and wipe their palms on their pants legs.
Even with Botox treatments, I detest shaking hands. And I know that those of us with sweaty hands are not the only ones who hate it. My grandmother had arthritis, and a firm handshake could bring her to tears. My best friend, a compulsive nail-biter, describes the “convoluted curl” she does to hide her fingers from public view; offering her hand in greeting is the last thing she wants to do. And when actor Kumail Nanjiani tweeted recently, “I can’t imagine ever shaking another hand,” the tweet got 50,000 likes in a matter of hours.
So now that we know shaking hands contributes to the spread of deadly germs, can we all just agree to eradicate this preposterous custom? What were we thinking, anyhow, when we took a stranger’s hand in ours, fingers that may have pried a piece of food from a tooth or were used to scratch an itch or wipe a nose? Why mark the occasion of making a new acquaintance by handing the poor sucker norovirus, E. coli or salmonella — let alone coronavirus?
When this pandemic is over, I propose we relegate handshakes to the past. We can stand six feet apart and wave. Curtsy or bow. Place a hand over our heart. Give a wink and a smile. But whatever we do, let’s say good riddance to shaking hands.
Amy Poeppel, author of the novels “Small Admissions” and “Limelight,” lives in New York City and Frankfurt, Germany. Her novel “Musical Chairs” will be out this summer with Emily Bestler Books.