US researchers have found that the nucleus accumbens – a region of the brain sensitive to rewards – shows greater activity for meetings with handshakes than for those without.
The study seems to demonstrate the positive effect of a handshake on social evaluation.
Perhaps this isn’t surprising, but I’ve sometimes wondered whether my life would have turned out differently with a better – and drier – handshake.
As someone cursed with sweaty palms, the handshake is a dreaded custom, particularly during formal occasions, like job interviews or business propositions. Many a time I’ve watched in agony as someone not-so-discreetly wipes the side of his pants after shaking my hand.
How many jobs have I lost because my palms felt like wet flatfish? How many big paydays have been squelched into oblivion?
Mind you, handshakes aren’t my only problem. I frequently find the whole greeting game stressful and confusing.
Take Christmas and the recent New Year’s festivities. Things got weird when I welcomed folk who fell into that greyish area of family members you only see once or twice a year. A solitary handshake is too aloof, a slobbery embrace inappropriate.
What transpired became known as the “Nervous Man’s Shake.” It involved a brief handshake, followed by a let’s-get-this-over-with-quickly hug.
Every precaution was taken to ensure cheeks did not accidentally touch. Sometimes there was a compensatory pat on the back, heartily applied to prove genuine and manly emotions were at play.
If I had my way, the Caribbean greeting would become universal: two fists touching, a comment like “cool, bro” and that’s it. No fuss, all toe-curling embarrassment avoided and a mutual feeling of brotherhood.
It may seem a little fake if I tried it. But I expect it would send my nucleus accumbens into overdrive.
A few months ago I had the privilege of interviewing the new doctor in town, Libyan-born Fathi Hassan.
The occasion has stayed with me because it was such a humbling experience. Dr. Hassan spoke quietly and unemotionally when recounting cataclysmic events in his homeland. Some of the horrors he experienced were dropped into the conversation almost as asides.
As he spoke, I couldn’t help but measure my life against his. He lived under Gaddafi’s dictatorship for 42 years, helped casualties of a civil war, lost friends to fighting and endured the double tragedy of a sister drowning and a brother succumbing to cancer.
I’ve … well, I’ve … erm … I’ve suffered the trauma of losing my pet guinea pig, Chortleus Guinness (the name wasn’t my idea!).
A tragedy for me is when Liverpool lose at soccer, a drama when my credit card chip fails at Btowns, a calamity if I confuse paper towels with toilet rolls, a crisis if I run out of quarters for the washing machine, a major embarrassment if I dial house numbers instead of phone numbers.
Hang on, I did thwart two knife-wielding thugs who tried to bundle me into their car. I would love to say – and sometimes do – that I disarmed them with my Bruce Lee routine, before clubbing them unconscious with Tysonesque fists. In fact, a lady motorist screaming “leave him alone” distracted them and allowed me to flee with undignified haste.
The truth is the nearest I’ve got to a life-threatening experience is a YouTube video.
