An Ode To My Bubble of Space
Reveries of an Early Person
When I was in elementary school, we learned about the personal hula-hoop of space in the context of recognizing abuse, bullying, and learning about consent. I said FUCK your hula-hoop, and fuck your notions of “good touch”. I have a bubble, and my boundaries extend beyond contact. Don’t come in my bubble. I won’t come in your bubble. Ideally, our bubbles won’t even touch.
I consider my bubble an extension of my body, and I assume that everyone else has their own bubble that is roughly an equal size to mine. I imagine that our bubbles are made of rubber and that the polite barrier of space between two people is far enough apart that the bubbles would not bounce off one another. Unless you are standing behind me or you are standing between me and somewhere I need to be and I’m certain you can’t hear me, I am going to take the long way around you, leaving room for both of our bubbles. I don’t care who the fuck you are or what the fuck you look like. We all deserve a wide buffer. We are three-dimensional beings. We breathe and spit and sweat and shed dead skin. Why is it considered misanthropic to want a generous allotment of personal space? I can love and respect my fellow man from over here. A wave and a smile from a distance is just fine in most cases, thank you.
