Friday, August 27, 2010
I wanted the news, not the weather
Of all the things on this earth that I hold dear, I would say that my personal space is high atop this imaginary list. I don't like people touching me. I'm not a fan of friendly pats on the back (but I do like my nephew's "football guy hugs") firm grabs on the shoulder or clutches of the forearm. Really, I just don't want you to touch me. Ever.
There are, of course, exceptions to every rule. If I know you well, love you deeply, have the same blood as you coursing through my veins or said "I do" to you, you're allowed to touch me. Hell, I will even accept you within the bubble I like to call My Bizzness. With open arms. Otherwise, I suggest you take at least 2 steps in the rear direction because youarewaytooclosetome. Most people, I have decided, do not know what personal space is nor do they care to understand its definition.
This is never more evident to me than when I go to a retail outlet of any kind. You name it: grocery store, drug store, gas station, etc. No one at any of these places understands that I have an invisible bubble around my scrawny body that I often wish was bordered by an electric fence. You know, to zap you when you get entirely too close to me. Which seems like all the time.
Take the grocery store for example. I love the self checkout. But some people feel that they need to spoon my back like a koala bear when I'm checking myself out and wanting to kill the lady whose pleasant computer voice can't understand that I've already placed my items in the bagging area. I know that it's really important for you to buy 10 cases of Mountain Dew, 15 cases of Busch Light and a carton of cigarettes as soon as humanly possible, but I'd like you to wait OVER THERE, not RIGHT HERE. I'm busy buying my own personal essentials: Sugar-free Red Bull, protein bars and candy corn.
Yesterday really was the pinnacle of this overwhelming need I have developed over my 27 years for personal space. I was at CVS, buying Red Bull and other items I truly "needed" when someone invaded my personal space. At this particular store, there is really only room for one person in the point of sale area. That person is me. It's an unspoken rule, really. You can wait at least 5 steps behind me and then buy your crap after I pay for my crap. Capiche? No, no capiche here.
I was hanging out in my own personal space yesterday at the checkout when a woman stepped into My Bizness to purchase her stuff. Actually, she saddled up and smacked down her purchase on the counter proudly: store-brand vaginal anti-itch cream with bonus Something Or Other that I don't remember because I had to look away so I wouldn't vomit on my cute shoes.
Don't get me wrong, I understand that sometimes ladies need some help in that general vicinity. That's why they make creams and lotions and medications--that's not the issue here. All I'm saying is, I typically hide my embarrassing purchases under less embarrassing purchases and hope that I don't run into anyone I know in my careful journey from the back of the store (because that's clearly where all the embarrassing stuff should be kept) to the front. There is no smacking embarassing items down on the counter for me, ever.
Also, I scream in my head at the person at the checkout counter to scan and hide the embarassing stuff first, so that no one knows I buy embarassing things. I have a reputation to uphold here. But I guess the real lesson here is that I just need to stop being so darn embarrassed by anti-itch cream. Clearly.
Posted by Emily at 8:29 AM