This morning a man offered me his hand to shake. The F-150 parked behind him and the low, guttural, one-syllable bark in which he announced his moniker gave me every reason to expect a Full Monty, brace-yourself-for-this-one kind of a union. Instead, he grabbed the end of my fingers, pinched them with—I think— no more than three of his own, and executed what could best be described as a drive-by attempt. The fact that I had, in fact, braced myself and leaned into the motion with all I had, left me kiltering between "yes this is me on my ass" and "oh, sorry I'm licking your boots so early in this relationship." That's okay. He DID at least LOOK like Steve McQueen, so we'll just chalk it up to too much booze too early in the morning—cuz that's still manly.
In all seriousness though, gentlemen, you should know that when you're going in for a shake with a lady, no matter how fragile she appears, better to break two of her fingers and knock her into next week than to flop like a fish in her palm. Trust me. She will judge you. For a girl, the Richter scale measurement of the handshake is directly proportionate to the size of the . . .
Always better to leave this kind of impression:
Than this one:
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