Hand Job

I was on my way to the grocery this evening and as is my usual behavior when venturing out into the world, I took everything in. Beside me, a bulbous man guarded a fleet of misplaced carriages. Across the street, a 20-something waited for the bus, glued to his tech from finger to ear. And ahead was a couple sauntering towards me with groceries, their free hands joined together in holy matrimony.

I noted the swing of their arms. Most of the momentum was created by the woman, who was deeply engaged in whatever the hell she was talking about. The man stared straight ahead in silence with the kind of no-shit-giving expression I imagine a lot of men have several days before murdering their wives.

As they made their way past me, I had a thought:
Am I a hand-holder? Do I do that?

It wasn’t a literal question. Of course I’ve held hands – but am I someone who needs that? Do I attribute anything so significant to the act that if someone didn’t hold my hand, I’d be hurt? Does it make me feel closer to them or does it merely advertise our closeness to others?

I kept coming back to that question in between questions of equal importance – like do I want meatballs and does mac and cheese go with meatballs – and I’m not sure, but I do know I’m a toucher. When it comes to the person I’m dating, I’m like David in Prometheus. I’m touching shit all over the place.

And it isn’t the clingy kind of touching where you can’t be away from your lover for five minutes because you’re emotionally dependent upon their proximity. It’s the lustful kind where you adore them so much that you want to hump their face 24/7 and can’t, so you find other, more socially acceptable ways to make contact with them – like pinching their cheeks.

So I have countless memories of walking closely enough to press my arm against my other half or of me sitting beside them, stroking their chest. And I’ve definitely touched their hand. Rested mine against it. Clasped our fingers together. But I can’t recall ever reaching for someone’s hand to hold it.

I’m not saying it’s awkward or bad. I just wouldn’t initiate it. Not for a walk down the street. Jumping off a cliff into the river below? That may net your hand a grab. Exploring a rundown house that’s said to be haunted in the middle of nowhere? That won’t net you anything because you’d be doing that shit by yourself.

I ain’t lookin’ to get murderated!

So I guess I answered my own question. Am I a hand-holder? Nah. But I’m a wuvably huggable bear, and that’s what counts! That and meatballs, which, as it turns out, go very well with mac and cheese.

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