MY Space

I’m not talking here about some social structure in cyberspace where you define, not who you are, but who you would be, not given the constraints of who you are. I’m not thinking of an outer dimension where little people with bulging eyes and crystal skulls abduct powerless humans and transform them into robots. I’m talking about MY space. That fifty-nine and a half cubic feet of air space surrounding my body that is MY space and goes where I go. It surrounds me like an invisible shield and is ideally not to be penetrated by anyone unless invited and approved by me.

Remember trips in the car with your parents and siblings? Adults in the front seat, kids in the back. Dad draws the invisible line that follows the path of the upholstery stitching. My Dad did that. My brother and I were not to cross that line with any part of our bodies, souls or spirits. We were not to look across it, speak across it or breathe over it. This, naturally, made it impossible for my hoodlum brother to resist. Keeping my eyes straight ahead as instructed (of course), I could sense his fingertips crawling to the line of demarcation. I could feel his eyes watching to see what I would do about his encroachment into my space. When his fingers crossed that line, I could endure the torture no more. I slugged him. He screamed, “Sissy hit me for no reason.”

“Dad, he crossed the line!” “Did not!” “Did, too!” I could never win this game. How could I have seen his dirty little fingers come over the line if I was looking straight ahead? I just knew. I just knew.

I don’t appreciate people coming into my space uninvited. I don’t like close talkers. You’ve met them. These are the people who stand far closer to you than convention allows. Then they lean in toward your face while talking directly into your nostrils. No! Do not do this. Not to me, not to anyone. This is unacceptable behavior. If you see me take a step back, don’t follow. Stay where you are and talk to me from there. Got it? I’d hate to have to slug you.

If you sit beside me on an airplane, I can accept that I have to give a little and allow you into my space. But you really annoy me when you claim the seat separator as your own. That slender piece of metal that comes down between your seat and mine is not an armrest. It is a physical barrier, put there through the wisdom of the designer who obviously played the invisible line game and lost as I did. It is meant to separate your space from mine. Do NOT put your arm on it or let your elbow hang over it into the space on my side. I paid good money for my seat and all the allotted air space that goes with it. While I’m at it, I want all my knee space. Do NOT assume that you can spread your legs out all over my side. Keep your knees and feet together on your own side. I do.

While I’m on the subject—if you need a seat and a half, go ahead and pay for it. Don’t assume that I am willing to share my seat with you. If your big butt doesn’t fit on your seat—and your seat alone—buy two or move to first class. I don’t like having to scrunch up in the other half of my seat and still be forced sit with your flabby thigh and jiggly arm sweating against me. This is not only very uncomfortable for a trip of any length, it just isn’t right on many levels.

Did I hurt your feelings? Come here. Let me give you a hug.