She tells everyone she has carpal tunnel though her wrists are fine.  “Squeeze right here,” she says, proffering her tendons.  “Feel that?  You can sense the damage.” You squeeze, sensing nothing in particular, some fat, some bone and cartilage, and then both of you watch pale finger-marks disappear from her wrist.

After church she extends her arms to you from across the foyer.  “Sweetie! So good to see you!” Her hands, advancing half a meter ahead of the rest of her, seem to wish they could detach from the whole slow unit and rush forward to grasp you.  The only way to fend them off is to clasp them between both your own hands at the first opportunity; all four swing between you as you chit and chat.

And what damage does it do, really, to grasp and be grasped? None in particular.  So you do it.