An Open Letter to Personal Space Abusers

Dear PSA's,
I do not understand your problem, really. You live in a city with 12 million people. Cars park on top of each other (there are actually things called "bumper buddies" to protect your car during parallel parking bumps). People trip over each other to make it through the crosswalk. There is no room on the sidewalks. Standing room only on the express trains. Sharing tables in casual restaurants is common. Sitting EXTREMELY close to the next table (ie, can you pass the salt?) in formal restaurants is common. You would think that the desire for personal space would be welcomed with open arms, added to Christmas lists, and written up in Op/Ed pieces for the NYTimes, written in books about myths and legends. I agree that it is a luxury here, so why on earth, when the opportunity presents itself, would you not leap on it and grasp all the personal space you can amass?

I LOOOOOOVES me some personal space. When I was growing up people used to tease me about my "invisible circle". Nobody gets inside L's circle they'd say. (Obviously someone did, eventually, make it inside the circle seeing as how I have reproduced, but it's a wives tale that is still perpetuated today and I don't make any effort to correct it.) Somehow I grew up in the south and managed to avoid the "hugger" gene. In a land of people who hug to stab each other in the back.....eeeeeeeverybody be huggin' down south....I'm just not into it. I'm not a natural displayer of affection (except with my son, who I can't seem to keep my hands off of). I'm very awkward at greeting others and was once labeled as a "leaner" in terms of hugging by my own father. I go in from the side with a lean and sort of pat the shoulder of the greet-ee. On a scale of 1-10, I feel about a 6 in terms of bad about this habit of not being a hugger. I was never a huge fan of PDA (growing up, if my mom ever saw me holding hands with a boy she might as well have caught me doing the naughty in my book.) So you can imagine my horror when people stand too close to me when clearly there is plenty of room to NOT be standing so close.

In New York, people greet each other with that very European ritual of cheek kissing. I'm intrigued by this, but am not able to carry it off without looking like a robot. It's completely common to do this even with people you've met only once. And if the people are actually European, it's way worse. I swear they use tongue. I have no idea how to handle this situation. I usually try the avoidance tactic.....busying myself with Ryan's coat or by carrying a bulky item so that I can just wave and make my way past the greeting portion of the evening as quickly as possible. So far this has worked well for me. What has not worked well is avoiding those who just can't seem to get close enough on the subway, in the bookstore, and my favorite, the food market.

We live at the end/beginning of a subway line. We are the first/last stop depending on which way you're going. I love this because when I get on the train to go uptown, the train car is usually pretty empty and seats are plentiful. So WHY would someone come and sit right beside me in a car full of empty seats? I'd like to think it's my winning personality or blinding hotness that attracts people to me, but based on the people that flock my way, I must give off some kind of weird pheramone that only attracts the elderly and/or sketchy. This past weekend I had the "good fortune" of riding home on the train that was entertained not once, but twice by random subway mariachi singers. Why both groups chose to serenade me personally (despite my best effort to feign narcolepsy) is beyond me, but there I was, the victim of a "standing too close mariachi driveby musical". Ole! Once they left, everyone's favorite, the totally strung out junkie (second only to the person who boards with a fresh load of lunch in his pants), stumbles aboard. This guy was really out of his mind. I watched as he sat down next to a random old man and proceeded to fall asleep on the guy's shoulder. It struck me as odd that the old man didn't make any move to get up and move or shove the junkie onto the floor. He himself is probably a personal space abuser. Paybacks. Anyway, due to excessive drool, I thought the junkie was going to throw up. Evidentally he regained consciousness long enough to realize he missed a stop, so after standing up and giving an F-bomb laced dissertation on his feelings, he began looking for a new seat. I began to panic as there were plenty around me. Lucky me, junkie man picked the seat directly across from me. I was within prime projectile vomit radius, so I high tailed it to the opposite end of the train as quickly as possible.

Last week I was at Barnes and Noble perusing the cookbook section, which was HUGE. Tons of cookbooks. This pleased my soul and I hoped to settle in for a good time of looking at pictures of pretty food that I'll never really know how to make properly. So WHY would someone decide to come and destroy my moment by standing elbow to elbow with me on the same dang aisle? Hello? There are a thousand cookbooks to look at, covering at least 4 aisles. Must we literally be rubbing elbows? I moved over. She moved over. I wanted to scream out, "WHY ARE YOU TOUCHING ME?????" but I respect the sanctity of bookstores, so I mumbled it under my breath as I went to explore other options. Ah....the New Fiction table. I like this place too. I am the only one at the table. Personal space! Oh wait....here comes an elderly woman who, I'm not kidding, positions herself between me and the table. And I was standing pretty close to the table. I have made inadvertant contact with her posterior. I move. She moves next to me. I begin to fantasize about a city full of Matt Lauers, Howie Mandels, and others who maybe have some OCD about personal space. I also meditate on hand sanitizers and make a mental note to add "Inventor of Hand Sanitizer" to my list of favorite people (which also includes "Inventor of the Epidural" and "Inventor of the Magic Eraser Sponge").

And finally, the PSA's in the Food Town market. I am bent over looking for meat in the meat cooler. I just want a nice sirloin to try out one of those recipes I will likely screw up. I am minding my own dang business. Suddenly, I hear the cackle of an old woman saying, "Why would you hit me with your pocketbook?". I glance up. Evidentally, this is a question I'm supposed to answer based on her glare. I take inventory. My "pocketbook" (I hate that word...I have no books in my pocket. It's a PURSE for crying out loud...even handbag is acceptable) is on my opposite shoulder. I apologize anyway and go back to my digging. Again she says in her loud, old-lady speak, "Why do you keep hitting me? You keep hitting me with your pocketbook!". Now, if you've ever heard a northener say the word "pocketbook", you know the whiney pitch that comes with it. I'm not sure why, but everybody, man/woman/child, sounds like Fran Drescher when they say "poooooocketbook". Nails on a chalkboard for me. At this point, I'm ready to formally introduce her to my pocketbook. I snapped. All the PSA's I've encountered this week have led me to this moment, here in the Food Town meat section. I unleash. This woman was accusing me of hitting her, not once, but twice, with my PPOOOOOOOOCKetbook. Obviously, if that really did occur (which I'm 100% certain it did not), it was simply because she was standing in my personal space. I looked that old geezer right in her beady little eyes and said through gritted teeth with my best mean face, which made my toddler cry once, "I already apologized. I did not HIT. YOU. Now MOVE. OVER., let me get my meat so I can GET. OUT." (I put extra emphasis on the "t" sounds to further dig in my point.) That seemed to shut her up. My husband calls that my "Nice Nasty". He thinks that's a southern adaptation of the world knows as a "bitch". And it's true. A NiceNasty is a bitch with a smile. Southerners excel at this. We'll stab you in the back after we serve you tea and offer you a cupcake for the road on the way to the hospital to have the knife removed. Then we'll call you and invite you to church. Nice to meet you. :)

So, PSA's, I ask that you respect the space. Enjoy it when you have a moment where you're not pressed up against someone else. Appreciate a little elbow room. It's good for you!

No hugs or kisses today,
L.