I went to an online meeting of Handshakers Anonymous (HA) yesterday. It was exhilarating. I personally never have felt addicted to handshaking, which can transfer more than just the coronavirus, but I have been an enabler.

In the past, I never offered my hand, because half the time you wound up with the macho hand squeeze, the pretentious limp hand, the disgusting finger-palm tickle, or the sweaty palm that made you want to emulate Adrian Monk and immediately call for a wipe, which, of course, you can’t do very well these days, because the stores are sold out.

But, unless I quickly thought to ad lib emulated cold symptoms so as to subversively dissuade the offer, I would go along with the shake, even as my mind raced with thoughts of the negative possibilities that might ensue, not the least of which was that the person might think I liked them.

So I wasn’t at the meeting to address my own addiction, but rather to learn how to help others fight their addiction. Various methods were offered. For example, you can go straight in for a hug if you know the person well enough or aren’t concerned about ever running for public office. If you act fast enough, you can dictate the fist bump in lieu of the handshake, and, as a bonus, make the other person feel hip.

And now, with HA crawling into mainstream society, one need not feel ashamed or hesitant to decline a shake by telling someone that you’re in recovery. For that, you might even get a pat on the back, which is okay, unless it’s found to be a gateway contact.