We’re a claustrophobic society. Maybe because we take Freedom and America’s vastness for granted we’re quick to feel uncomfortable when someone’s in our space. You know, that invisible personal zone – delineated by our magic sensors that detect body heat, food-breath, and clothing that carries an odiferous blend of Chinese restaurant and bowling ally – that warns of a close encounter. And I think we’re becoming more space-sensitive, evidenced by social warriors employing their three by five inch shields, held in a defensive posture; small-target body profile, head tipped forward at forty-five degrees, eyes side-glancing for imminent intruders.
I make an effort to be that violator when I detect spacial discomfort in someone I’m talking with, typically one of my wife’s friends or my daughter’s boyfriend. Not so close as to be freakishly uncomfortable, just six inches closer than normal. Their reactions are always noteworthy. The retreat step backward. A break in eye contact with side-glances for escape routes. Arms folded in front with their spine in a notable backward arch.
My son Joe got the gene and intentionally creeps up on me at work or home, leaning over my shoulder while I’m on the computer, intentionally breathing on my head or reaching around me to grab something off the counter. So I understand the instinctive urge to drop an orange safety cone to mark our space.