In good hands

My sweaty palms, to have and to hold.

I have a superpower: I can make my palms sweaty whenever I want. Though it’s not the kind you read about in the comics, I call it my superpower because it seems to be the one thing I can set my mind to and accomplish without fail. In actuality, it’s a condition called focal hyperhidrosis: excessive sweating in one or more parts of the body (for me, my palms and the soles of my feet). It’s said to affect 3% of the population. I don’t go around telling people I have it, though — “superpower” sounds cooler.

Story by Lucas Kim

Design by Esther Tang

One thing I wish my hands would affect more is my love life. (Some argue I don’t have one, but that’s beyond the point.) I once refused my middle school crush’s invitation to dance at a bar mitzvah because I didn’t want to subject her to a whole song’s worth of drowning in proverbial deep water. That unremarkable Saturday night in 2016 was the first time a romantic interest had ever attempted such a daring maneuver on me, something that has admittedly happened fewer times than I can count on one clammy hand. More often than I probably should, I worry about what my future partner will think, that they would suddenly have second thoughts as soon as we lock hands at the altar. Mom says to worry about finding someone to begin with, but I implore her to let a man dream.

I’d estimate my palms are sweaty around 80% of the time. Fortunately, there are no severe medical implications, but that’s not to say my sweaty palms haven’t had their fair share of consequences on my life. No one wants to touch a clammy hand, so all forms of palm-to-palm contact are far down on my list of favored ways to greet others. Unfortunately, my preferences fly out of the picture when an acquaintance approaches me in the library with a wide-eyed smile and an extended hand, blissfully unaware of the grave error they’re about to make. I tend to to avoid eye contact for the remainder of our interaction as they come to terms with just how mind-bogglingly soaked my palms are. My closest friends, on the other hand, know not to go anywhere near them. When I mention this peculiarity to others, they speculate on the cause of my sweating. Perhaps I’m in a constant state of anxiety; perhaps my perpetual unease bites away at the soft epidermis of my extremities, giving way for the moisture to creep through my pores. Sometimes I believe them.

One person who will always hold my hands, though, is my grandma, who envelops them with a softness like a warm loaf of bread. As she prepares her signature rice cake soup for the New Year, I study her hands as she delicately cracks an egg into the boiling bone broth. I observe how her veins protrude from her pale fingers, extending down to her wrists. It makes me wonder just how many cracked eggs, crossed fingers and wiped tears her hands have endured to still remain the softest ones I’ve ever felt.

Mom used to try and mention my sweaty hands to the pediatrician at every annual check-up, but eventually gave up after suffering enough of my desperate complaints. Even if it were possible, I don’t want to believe my hands are in need of “correcting.” As bizarre as it sounds, when they’re dry, they don’t feel like they are mine. My hands are my gateway to the rest of the world, dictating how I interact with others and reflecting how I cope with its countless challenges. They are, in fact, my superpower because I know that whoever holds them actually means it.