Oh, I’ll Touch You All Right
By Shel Desormeaux

(This is a long-standing beef, however trite. I was reminded of it this morning and I’ve been in a particularly foul mood all day. Stay with me, as it has.)

I do NOT have personal spaces issues. 

Honestly. You can ask anyone who knows me, I’m not a touch-me-not. I have no problem being hugged, or poked, or affectionately cuffed, or what have you. As a matter of fact, I have been known to wrestle hesitant people into my space.

Even if I had issues with closeness, I’m pretty sure I’d easily recognize the situations that don’t accommodate this hang up. Unless you’re allergic to the actual dermis of another human being, you just have to deal with them sometimes. Like on the city transit, you know?

When you ride the subway, you may find yourself in extremely close proximity with another human being. Now. This person may brush up against you, or nudge you with one of their belongings. They might even fall into you during one of those graceful glides into a station, or impulsively reach out and grab you to steady themselves (wee old ladies do this from time to time). I was on the streetcar once, not all that long ago, and the driver came to a screaming halt in the middle of an intersection. I caught a woman in one arm (it’s either that, or clean her off the back window). And sometimes, like during rush hour, it gets really cozy. I joked once, in a group of five guys, that if we all got any closer, I was gonna give them all a kiss. They just smiled, more or less. I got off at the next stop so as it turns out I didn’t have to get that up-close with any of them. It happens.

And when it does? Don’t fucking panic.

You’re irresistible, yes, but I’m sure most people wouldn’t try to cop a feel in broad daylight, you nit. I stood beside a couple once, not all that long ago, and I think my umbrella brushed her ankle. Wide-eyed, she turned to her husband and whispered, “Someone just touched me.” Of course, Love Machine, it was me. I couldn’t help myself. I’m bouncing around this wreck of a tin tube, on my way to a long grinding day at the office, and all I can think about is how I’m going to find a way to touch your hide. My bad.

I wish I could figure out how so many people go from sticking their tongues in strangers’ ears on the weekends to being terrified of unknown pantlegs on a Monday morning.  I’d like to be able to blame it on alcohol, but I know plenty of Saturday Sluts who don’t drink. What gives? I don’t get it.

I understand we all have our little fuck-ups and freakouts now and again, but for the love of all that is holy, try to pick one little quirk you can consistently maintain. It’s easy, for instance, to be afraid of mice. We’ll never learn to love our neighbors if we figure every single one of them has shingles.

So lighten up, jerks.