I like my personal space. I like to think that I have a floating pink bubble around me. You know, the imaginary, impenetrable force-field that is supposed to ward off freaks and weirdos. This force-field might also be called COMMON DECENCY. Personal space, much like common sense and decency, is clearly not as “common” as it should be. Let me just tell you about my encounters with people who do not respect the boundaries of my force-field.
Checkout lanes are a hotbed for space invaders. For some reason I feel as if instead of a pink bubble around me, I have a sign radiating above my head that screams, “Please get as close to me as possible without actually touching me.” It seems as though those who invade spaces actually have quite a few tricks up their sleeves in order to get their invasion fixes. The one that gets me rowdy every time is the cart crowder. You all know what I’m talkin’ bout. Some creeper who uses his or her cart to get thisclose to you, and has usurped your space at the debit card keypad. They casually creep up on you. Just because you’re standing within striking distance does not mean that the lady with the scanny thing is going to move any faster. Just step away from my cart. Cuz my baby is in there. And I’ll throw down if necessary.
Besides checkout lanes, there are mall invaders. Those are the people who, instead of walking around me and my precarious load of packages and baby paraphernalia, decide to walk up on my heels. You know, like tailgaters but on foot. A subtle brake check is usually how I remedy this type of thing, but seriously why don’t these people just go around me and my hot mess of an operation. I have a child. Anyone with a child knows that going to the mall is about as simple as mobilizing troops to storm a terrorist bunker. It takes time. Back off. I’m trying here.
True story: my Hottie, my baby and I were at the (s)mall arcade the other day. Hottie and I were engaged in an extreme air hockey competition. Mr. E was watching with bated breath, banging his cup in exaltation. Our perimeter was clearly established. Out of the depths of hell comes some freaky weirdo in a P.I.M.P. hat with a certain swagger in his step that made me cringe. He pierced the perimeter. Hottie and I immediately dropped our air hockey paddles in preparation for a full-on space battle. Mr. E’s space was invaded; alerts rang out in our cute little ears. Our startled appearance gave Mr. P.I.M.P. enough of a clue to get up out our bizness. But why? Why wander into territory that is clearly marked as “ours” ? And thanks a lot, because in my moment of sheer panic, Hottie took full advantage of scoring a cheap goal. I had to make him pay for that, but nonetheless, it was ridiculous that we were even bothered by the space invader of the third kind.
There are other times when people get up in my bubble, but I don’t have time to get into the specifics. The bottom line of the whole personal space issue is this: unless you’re invited into my bubble, back. the. eff. up. VIPs only. Know where you stand. And then don’t stand too effing close to me.