A Handshake Tutorial
In gratitude for my friend and mentor, Annie Glenn
In 2006, my friend Annie Glenn offered some advice about shaking hands.
“If you’re going to be in a crowd, do not wear any rings on your right hand,” she said, tapping the giant turquoise stone I was wearing on mine. “They can hurt you.”
I was confused. “The rings?”
She shook her head. “The handshakes.”
Annie was the wife of former astronaut and U.S. senator John Glenn, and a celebrity in her own right. By the time we became friends, in the early 2000s, she had shaken tens of thousands of hands. She was an expert on all things crowd related, and knew I often felt overwhelmed when surrounded by lots of people. I cherished her many campaign tips.
I don’t remember if Annie said her hand had been broken or just severely injured after a particularly rough handshake, but I’ve never forgotten her advice. I love wearing chunky rings of sea glass or natural stones, but as soon as people start approaching to shake hands I usually pull off the rings and slip them into a pocket or purse. Weeks can go by before I remember where I tucked them away.
“You could just leave the rings at home,” Sherrod said. Once.
Some of you may recall my mentioning a recent fall, which two months later is not feeling so recent anymore. I was racing on wet pavement in my favorite platform shoes (since donated) in a too-long faculty commencement gown (also donated) when I fell Face Down in the Falling Rain, which is the title of the next song for my non-existent all-girl country music band.
“Why on earth were you wearing platform shoes?” a friend asked when she saw me cradling my arm two days later. I’ve known her long enough to know by the look on her face that she wanted to add, “at your age.” Friendship is so often preserved by the quick edit.
As I explained to her, the extra height of a platform shoe makes me feel a bit taller and more secure in a crowd. She nodded. “As long as you remain upright, you mean.”
Anyway.
After every physical therapy visit, I’m sent home with more homework. Yay! This allows me to feel in control as I grimace my way through exercises designed to return me to my previous state of fitness, which was nothing to brag about until now.
Our two dogs find these exercises fascinating. Their favorite is when I hold the end of an exercise band and step side-to-side twenty times with a towel wedged under my armpit. It’s as attractive as it sounds.
Franklin, the older dog, stands at my feet and looks up at me with eyes of pity. Spritely, ten-pound Walter trots along and barks up at me, as if he were my personal trainer. This is more amusing to write about than to endure in the moment.
You may find this shocking, but Sherrod’s senate campaign continues to roar full speed ahead despite this injury I can’t stop talking about. That’s his hand reaching for mine across the Scrabble board, otherwise known as the battleground state of this marriage.
In 2015, I wrote a Parade essay about his—fine, our—habit of making up words never before uttered in our home before Scrabble. For months, readers sent me new words using the letters Q, X and Z. I may never have shared these with Sherrod.
That green leather book to the left was my bright idea in 2008. “Hey, let’s keep a record of our scores!” As you can see in this photo, it has devolved into a play-by-play accounting of one another’s missed opportunities and indefensible mistakes. Perhaps Sherrod has had more reasons to gloat. I admit this only because I don’t want him showing up in the comments.
During this campaign season, I’d like to see my husband at least occasionally while the sun is still in the sky, so I show up at many of his campaign events. Lots of handshaking, always with well-meaning people.
No one would know by looking at me that my arm is injured. Whenever I mention it, I sound like a toddler who has just tumbled out of her Little Tykes Cozy Coupe. Fortunately, maybe, I was recently set straight by a not-so-gentle reprimand from a regal 82-year-old woman who wanted me to know she had supported Sherrod long before I’d met him.
She approached and reached for my hand during one of Sherrod’s speeches. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, clasping my shoulder. “I hurt my arm.”
“You what?” She was not whispering.
She grabbed my hand with alarming strength. “Never admit to weakness. Never appear frail.” She pointed at Sherrod. “You. Must. Win!”
Few things mortify a political spouse more quickly than being identified as a sign of weakness for the candidate. Yes, Your Highness! I shall shake those hands!
There are basically four types of handshakes, and I’m here to share them so that you, too, can learn how to brace for impact.
The gentle handshake. This is like a petal in your palm. Or a gossamer wing, perhaps. Barely there, as if it just happened to flutter past on its way to somewhere else. I used to regard such handshakes as the limpest of efforts. Now I pray for them.
The brisk handshake. This is how your hand feels when you’re shaking the cereal box to dislodge the last three Cheerios lodged in the corner of the bag. Not unbearable, but it can make me wonder if I am worthy of their effort.
The jackhammer handshake. This is when the person pumps your arm so long and hard that your toes begin to lift from the floor and your voice vibrates like the passenger in a metal Red Ryder wagon being dragged across train tracks. (We used to do this to my little brother.)
The two-handed handshake. This is meant to express affection, often coupled with a gush of gratitude for having sacrificed my columnist career for my husband’s ambitions. This tells me they’re not reading me here on Substack. I never mention that, unless they add that my husband’s career is worth my silenced opinions. These were the very words once uttered to me by a publisher at one of the largest newspapers in the country.
Maybe I’ll write about that someday.
Working title: That Time I Didn’t Punch Him.
P.S. Like many of you, we’ll be watching tonight’s first 2024 presidential debate between President Joe Biden and former President Donald Trump. Biden has been open about his lifelong struggle with stuttering, and only the cruel would mock him for it. If that should happen tonight, I will remember something else I learned from Annie Glenn.
She was 50 years old when she found help for her own stutter—John said he cried the first time he watched her give a speech—and became an international hero in her advocacy for others. She talked quickly during the day, but was more likely to stutter in the evening. During one such evening, over dinner, she smiled and grabbed my hand. “The more slowly I am speaking,” she said, “the harder I am working to be heard.”
That Time I Didn’t Punch Him.
I would read this.
Thanks, Con! Perfect timing—for a welcome memory visit from Annie and for reminding us, as always, to be kind.