The right touch

   Dinner in DC with new colleagues in that office and others who have gathered for the firm's diversity retreat.  I end up sitting next to a woman about my age, with aggressively bleached hair and an equally aggressive need to call attention to herself and, strangely, her handbag, which she refers to her Prada.  "Oh, could you hand me my Prada?"  "Oh, where's my phone?  I must have left it in my Prada."  Oh, indeed.

   The Prada thing is only mildly annoying, and only embarrassing for her.  Unlike the other aggressive attention-grabbing moves, which begin with grabbing my arm, then sitting directly up against me to the point -- as I'm later told -- that some feared she just might sit in my lap.  Oh my.

    Ladies, this is not attractive.  Compare and contrast the appropriate, occasional light touch of a lady's hand upon your arm, which is delightful.  I have in mind a dear friend from college, who used to do this.  She used to touch me, and others I'm sure (I sigh) in just the right way for a woman to touch a man, even if they are friends and nothing more.  Lightly, on the forearm.  But not too lightly.

   The forearm is the perfect place.  If a woman touches a man high on the arm, above the elbow, he can feel as if she is steering him, telling him where to go and, probably, how fast and with whom.  If a woman touches him too low on the arm, and anywhere near the wrist, he can feel as if she is telling him to stop, to watch himself, to behave.  The forearm is the perfect place, especially if a woman touches him there lightly.  But not too lightly.

   The young woman who was my dear friend touched me in that way any number of times, for any number of reasons.  To say hello.  To get my attention.  To say come with me, or wait here while I fetch my coat.  To say goodbye, but I will see you soon.  And each time she touched me in that way, it was a little, rare, special moment.  It was wonderful each time, like it would be if a beautiful bird would light upon your arm.