Have you ever wondered about the meaning of life and why we persistently invade each other's bubble of personal space? As the often despondent thinker Jack Superblack, I consider these questions regularly, usually pondering them just before my morning cry.
Touching: universally accepted yet mind-boggling. Take Mr. Tom Handsy, an advocate for the cheek kiss—who knew that smacking your lips against another’s cheek could be such rocket science, visible from space and yet so wrongly executed here on Earth? Equally baffling are those “I’m a hugger” types, like Ms. Mary Cuddlesworth, who traditionally open their arms wider than my future.
Here’s a thing—when someone decides to touch based on a fleeting impulse, do they consider the existential dread they awaken? It’s a touch, not a cure for the looming certainty of death.
Imagine this: you're enjoying sunshine in the park, considering the blissful end that would be choking on an ice-cream, and suddenly—a wild arm appears. It's Ms. Cuddlesworth, swathed in good intentions and oblivious to personal trauma.
Physical contact can trigger feelings. Bad feelings. Like realizing one will, inevitably, die alone. Perhaps next time, instead of offering your hand, offer a ponder on the universal dread of existence instead. It’s less intrusive.
And, a morbid joke to wrap up: why don’t mortician make good friends? Because they’re always the last to let you down. Alone. Very alone.
Based on the original article "The Etiquette of Touching a Stranger".
