At church the other day after everyone shook hands, the woman next to me – I'm not saying who – quietly reached into her purse and pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer. After casting a quick look up and down the pew, the woman – again, I'm not saying who – shot a couple globs of the goop on her hands and discreetly rubbed it in before quietly returning the bottle to her purse.
Not wanting to hasten the spread of the flu, some churches – though mine sometimes forgets – have suspended the practice of asking parishioners to greet each other during services. They are not the only ones trying to limit human contact.
Hospitals are discouraging visitors from touching patients, businesses are advising employees how to protect themselves from customers who might be contagious, and even schools are urging students not to hug or otherwise lay their hands on each other (which, for the ones in high school, is like asking them not to breathe).
This turn to a lighter touch will be tough for some of us to take.
For one segment of society, however, it should be a breeze.
Studies suggest that most people have a personal space – that immediate area around them that is off-limits to others – of about 2 feet. For Norwegian men, that distance is 2 feet – and 2,000 more.
It has always been hands off for those of us who have one X and one Y chromosome and whose ancestry can be traced to a spot in the Northern Atlantic . We're not back slappers or back rubbers or the kind of people who, after a few pitchers of beer, lock arms in the back room of a bar and burst into song.
We don't like handshakes that dwell or knees that meet or shoulders that brush. We also don't like heads that rest – particularly when they belong to 300-pound men seated next to us on an airplane.
Ours is the reverse condition. Objects for us are not closer than they appear. Rather, they appear closer than they are.
Not that we think touching is taboo. It's just that we tend to favor moderation, and unfortunately for us, moderation is missing altogether today.
It can be 12 in the afternoon or 12 at night. Flip on the TV and someone is patting, petting or pawing someone else. It makes no difference if it's some obscure cable channel or a network commercial for blue jeans. It's one big grabfest.
These images make us cringe – not unlike the reaction one has when installing a light switch before turning off the power. Or biting into granite.
I'm no scientist, but I'm convinced Norwegian men are genetically disposed to keep a distance. It is because of us that garages and solitaire were invented. We also were the inspiration for the phrase touch-and-go.
I'll admit there are moments when we wish hugging didn't give us the heebie-jeebies, when we don't wonder if, since we're not running around embracing each other, we're not embracing life the way one should. Often at times likes these, we'll gather our courage and squeeze someone.
And just about faint.
Eventually, if you're Norwegian and a man, you reach a point where you stop denying and start accepting. For centuries we have lived above the Arctic Circle and eaten lutefisk. Frankly, there is no better proof for the permanence of behavior than a fondness for ice or for cod soaked in lye.
If we can't change that about ourselves, what hope do we have at evolving into humans who drop the grudge and hold holding dear?
I know a woman – I'm not saying who – who makes no secret that she wouldn't mind if Norwegian men were more social.
I feel for her.
But only a little.