I thought it would be better...

Bad Touch

“Go ahead and show us where they touched you. Use the doll. It’s okay, please…” expectant looks in my direction. It is with some trepidation that I extend my index finger, quivering, and point. To the upper arm. Sometimes its a shoulder, others, its the back. I can only image the disappointment and frustration registering on my made-up inquisitor’s face at these revelations. What they, no doubt, can’t comprehend is why a person would be so bothered by a casual, friendly touch, such as a pat on the back. They may ask. I could only reply “Who do you think you are?!”

It is the unabashedness of complete strangers to reach out and make contact that disturbs me so. This sort of vicious attack occurs more often than you’d think, and certainly more often than I care for, as a direct result of my customer service-based professions.

It is a phenomenon that spans all ages, races, sexes, and galaxies (I’m assuming). You will be manhandled by old Caucasian ladies, middle-aged Pakistani gentlemen, proselytizing black women, and Korean children alike, and all for different reasons. I’m simply doing my job by helping people out, or I’m being a decent human being by treating people with kindness and compassion. I’m not seeking gratification, or attempting miracles by allowing a laying-on of hands.

I’ve never been a big fan of the Mission Impossible movies but I’m not below performing a Cruisian disguise method. Call me lazy all you want, but I will go months without getting a haircut and days without shaving, all in an effort to cultivate a disheveled, homeless look. I’m sleep-deprived and have black, sunken eyes. Slouch? Check. Blank face? Check. By all accounts you’d probably try and avoid me if you saw me on the sidewalk, however my uniform and ID give me away, and the masses zero in like some kind of apathy-seeking missile.

And I’m not some kind of germaphobe either. Sure, I wash my hands more than the next man (that’s right, I’m calling you out the 9 out of 10 people that piss and walk out of the public restroom when I’m in there!), but I’m not one of the legion of Purell brandishers that create the chorus of disgusting squishy noises by pump-pumping away. I think hand sanitizer is single-handedly making us MORE susceptible to illness, not to mention my own peccadilloes surrounding lotiony, gelatinous creams.

It isn’t that I find all manner of touching downright ookie. Handshakes are acceptable methods of introduction. Hands are at the outermost end of your limbs and can be extended well away from the personal zone of the body proper. Its when you travel past the wrist that sends alarms off in my head. I absolutely adore hugs! However, I think I have to be really comfortable with you, like, in a friends for years sort of way. I put this theory to the test when, at my recent 10-year high school reunion, I managed only four hugs and two handshakes.

I realize that I probably come off sounding like a neurotic asshole, but I can’t help but support a hands-off approach. I’ll make a joke, like blaming my aversion to touching on copious amounts of cocaine use, but it’s just to break the awkwardness. I’m sure you mean well and are just trying to personalize the connection, Mr(s). Stranger, but words are just as personal and powerful. Reach out and touch someone… else.