Personal space violations make it tough to exist

By Francesca Lo Basso
Collegian Staff
March 29, 2006

I wish I could remember the days of yore when close proximity used to imply intimacy. That was centuries ago, long before indoor plumbing and the magic of Swiffer. I can only imagine a world where someone close enough to smell your breath had the decency to buy you dinner first. But industrialization has brought us the splendor of public transportation. Oh, to be sealed like rows of cattle lined up for the slaughter while in transit…thanks a pants-load, Franklin.

So three weeks ago, I’m on a plane, which means I’ve already dealt with luggage, customs and flight attendants with enough hairspray to asphyxiate all 200 passengers. My friend and I were sitting in a row: she was on the right, I was in the middle and the last seat was empty. She kindly offered me the window seat, but I declined, preferring the extra leg room for my Amazonian frame. Right on cue, a man wide enough to span two zip codes sat down next to me. This is also precisely when the family in front of us lowered their seats back so far, they must have thought the flight included free dental work. Mind you, this is all before we’ve even left the ground. “How long is this flight?” I asked, sucking up whatever air was left in my half-foot of space. “Too long,” she replied.

Before I continue, I want to point out that this is not a list of criticisms against our pleasantly plump compatriots. I’m merely here to discuss my latest grievance against society: bubble bursters. Your bubble—that invisible sphere of personal space that surrounds you a foot in every direction? You know, the one that close-talkers poke a hole through with overly emphatic hand gestures and garlic-stained breath. Why is it that only people carrying fish in their back pockets feel the need to stand closer to you than your mother was when she gave birth to you?

All of us with socially anxious tendencies know that we don’t only suffer at the hands of close-talkers—we have the pleasure of experiencing panic attacks in subways as well. Or movie theaters, or doctor’s offices, or any place that requires the buffer seat between you and others. Unless, of course, you’re the person with the harrowing task of actually filling in the buffer seat. You know there’s something wrong with the state of the world when sitting next to someone in an empty room puts you in the same category as the peg-legged homeless guy who thinks he’s a lamp post (I imagine this is also the etiquette at urinals, but I’ve yet to test this theory).

And then there’s the mother of all awkward locales: the elevator. It’s a chance to simultaneously experience both claustrophobia and social anxiety. If it’s just you, the old guy (why is there always an old guy?) and one other person, you can deal with the unnatural silence for the two minutes it takes to go up or down. But there are always those times when the elevator’s packed, and you’re staring down someone else’s too-long nose and straight at his uni-brow. You want to laugh, but you know that if you did, everyone’s going to think you’re Michael Jackson-style nuts. Or worse, the uni-brow guy will know what you’re laughing at and you’ll have to feel the guilt of his watery stare for the entire ride.

So you hold your breath to stop yourself from laughing, which is when you notice that this is a very small space with a lot of people in it. And you begin to think of a quote you heard somewhere about the maximum capacity signs in elevators—it goes, “17 people, okay; 18 people, okay; 19 people ‘Ahhhhhhhh. . .’ ” Your stomach grumbles, and now you’re afraid you’re going to have to burp right in the face of uni-brow—who’s already mad at you because you laughed at his uni-brow—when the elevator finally stops, and you stumble into the shoe section of Bloomingdale’s. Oh, the beauty of modern conveniences...how terribly inconvenient they are.

lobassof1@lasalle.edu