Manshakes.

We moved recently and the moving company we hired was owned and operated by a family that looks like they were all fed human growth hormones and anabolic steroids instead of breast milk at birth. But not in a "gee, where did your neck go" kind of way, it was more along the lines of "holy hell, how is the weather up there and I can't believe you still manage to have an incredible set of muscles". Which, as you know, is priceless coming from me. Not the incredible set of muscles (my abs are winning the 2004 Hide & Seek Championship), but the height jab. Because not only am I taller than most humans, I am still only up to B's nose. So when I say "holy hell those guys are tall", you now know that my frame of reference for average is six feet.

I arranged our move, meeting the brothers and (mostly) trying to stay out of their way while they executed feats of strength. Like seeing one pick up our two hundred pound bookcase and proceed to carry it down the stairs himself. Luckily for me I had also arranged a cleaner for the following day to mop up all the damn drool. When B arrived halfway through the day, he was immediately in awe.

"Ohmygod, that guy nearly broke my hand when he shook it!"

"I KNOW! He totally gave me a manshake too. I appreciate that."

"I think he broke my hand."

"He used to play football professionally."

"*Seriously, it hurts."
(he started shaking out his hand while eyeballing the hallway to make sure the mover hadn't caught him wussing out)

"Isn't he dreamy?"

"Go away."

"I'm going to go shake his hand again."

"He was clearly sent back from the future to kill one of us and I'm pretty sure it isn't me since he let me live. Oh how he let me live."