Give me a hand.

Our family members tend to put our feet up on the furniture. I have an odd habit of grabbing those outstretched feet like a firm hand shake. 

Like, "Hey, good to see you."

Younger Son had just come home from tennis practice and had thrown himself on the couch and tossed his feet up on the coffee table. 

As I passed by him, I grabbed his stocking foot and immediately regretted it.  

Hot.  Sweaty.  Smelly.

I held up my tainted hand.  "I'm gonna go wash this now."

He shouted delightfully, "MISTAKES WERE MADE!"