When Clammy Hands Eff My Life Up

::The following is a brief recap of the most epic moments in my life that ended terribly at the perils of my clammy hands surfacing at the most inopportune time, dampening my memory of the experience with failure and grief::

My 7th Grade Dance
I was 13-years-old and armpit hair was vaguely evident. My voice cracked Da Vinci codes and I was terrified of girls. My shy and quirky demeanor made the faintest attempt at gaining confidence a feeble cause. But something inside of me (testosterone?) told me to let them descend and become a man. So I approached the most unattainable girl in my grade who had the least bit of working knowledge of my very existence. I walked up to her, with my hands in my pockets (which were actually reservoirs of watery mayhem) and asked, "wanna dance?" "OK," she said. I extended my hand and she grabbed it, but it slid out of her grasp like a fish out of water. She winced in disgust and never looked back. The end. This single event would later lead to me taking up oil panting hand art as therapy.

The Job Interview Handshake I was sitting in a large advertisement firm several years ago during the final round of my job interviews. I had nailed all three meetings, and articulately explained my experience and skills while outlining heroic work stories and life experiences that were laced with charm and humor. The only thing that stood between me and employment was the handshake, which is anything but a perfunctory gesture. I slimed the hiring manager with my sweaty palms, effectively defining myself poorly. It was the worst handshake ever, lacking key components: a swift, elegant movement toward the waiting hand, wise use of the eyes, grip strength, even the rhythm of the shake was off. And it was one of those glued handshakes that exceeded four seconds. I watched his smile instantly become terror when our palms collided and I knew it was over. Thank you clammy hands!

Being the Hero

I simply couldn't hold on. She slipped because of my clammy hands. I would be a hero, and a real man if I just held on to her.

When I Was Asked to Win the Game

The game was tied. There were two seconds left on the clock. I was called off the bench. All we needed to do was score and we win and I would be carried off the court and probably become the first freshman prom king ever. My teammate passed me the ball. I was wide open, but the ball slipped right through my fingers and into the hand of a teammate, who was behind me. He caught the ball, shot and scored. I briefly considered stealing the ball from my own teammate. To this day, I am certain that had my hands been dry, and I caught the ball, I would be playing semi-pro ball in the Ukraine. I was relegated to riding the pine and preparing Gaterade for everyone thereafter, sometimes dying my hands red in process.

Ending My Hand Modeling Career

I had it all. I was on top of the world. Making good money, and being recognized as the premiere authority in truly beautiful and dainty hands. I kept the secret hidden, until I was confronted by jealous fat hands, which were more like chubby paws. They released viral video of me wiping my hands on my pants at a rampant rate. During a photo shoot, my hyperhydrosis sweaty palm condition accelerated at such a rate that it began to rain during my audition for jazz fingers. It was grotesquely embarrassing and tragic. To this day, my hands are now known as slip 'n slides with zero marketing ability. The embarrassment keeps them in my front jean pockets most of the time now.

That Time We Took That Artsy Photograph In theory it was genius. Take a picture with everyone's hands bearing a pile of colorful pastel chalk powder. It was then that I realized my clammy hands do not welcome lilac colored chalk powder, since it created the volcanic chemical reaction of mixing baking soda and vinegar. A pungent odor killed the collaborative spirit of the group, prompting everyone to isolate, and shun me, while turning my hands into the subject of an unbelievable photo opportunity. While trying to wash off the chalk, I realized my sweaty palms might be hazardous, so I sheathed them in HAZMAT gloves for several months, avoiding direct sunlight and cameras.

Romantically Reading Palms

I had reached the summit of my romantic life. I was ringing door bells and holding single roses in my mouth, reciting obscure lines in classical French literature, and doing all the little things, like not describing wine as "alcoholy" or "wine-a-licious." But I crossed the line when I decided to go to have a palm reader analyze my palms and read into my future.

Palm Reader: Crisco shortening and Dove Soap will make an unthinkable business merger and you will lead the way with your cosmically impossible clams for hands. I can't guarantee love is in your future. You will get slapped in the face by sweaty gym socks. She will leave you for another man with dry, callous hands.

::she hands me a tissue to dry hands::

This blog is supported by the guarantee that I no longer have clammy hands. I promise.