The Crotch Girl and Personal Space Violators

August 31, 2010

In graduate school I was forced to take a ridiculous class that focused around how to properly program spaces within a building. It taught me stupid, common sense things like provide public restrooms off the main entrance of any building and make sure your elevator stops at every floor. Basically the entire class was a waste of time, except for a small piece of comedy it provided that I, and all my grad school buddies, still laugh about today.

One concept that the teacher really cared about was personal space. Whenever he talked about it, he would choose a student “randomly”, stick his crotch in their face and ask if he was interrupting their personal space. Only, the “randomly” selected student was always the same girl. She wasn’t in my immediate class and we didn’t know her name, so , naturally we all referred to her as “The Crotch Girl”. She’s sit there week after week, silent as our creepy teacher, with his thick glasses, mustache and pleated pants would nudge up next to her, shove his privates in her face and ask if it bothered her.

Watching the teacher invade The Crotch Girl’s personal space was usually the highlight of my week, but it’s a very different thing when you’re The Crotch Girl and you have someone’s unappealing junk shoved in your face.

BF and I were flying to Las Vegas a few months ago and, by some awful twist of wretched luck I was stuck in coach, sandwiched between a new mother with an infant sitting in the window seat and a half man, half bovine in the aisle seat, in all of his obese glory. He was so fat that his blubber was oozing over the armrest and actually encroaching on my seating area. If I wasn’t such a passive-aggressive wimp, I would have complained to the flight attendant. Instead, I compacted myself and quietly thought of ways I could slip a laxative in his Coke while he was looking away.

Surprisingly, Rosemary and her baby were quiet as can be and, even though Jabba The Hut had all the tell tale signs of a morbidly obese person (that funky fat person smell and strange internal body sounds), the flight was not a total nightmare. That was, until the captain turned off the seatbelt sign.

As soon as the light went off and that all-too-familiar “ding” rang through the cabin, Jabba unlocked his seatbelt extender  and  pulled himself out of his seat to retrieve something in the overhead bin…I assumed it was a box of éclairs or a slab of peanut butter fudge.

As he opened the bin and leaned in to rifle through his bag, his front butt crotch lunged forward and practically attacked my face. I scooted back in horror, but was confined to my small chair. Not wanting to smother the infant beside me, I curled up into the fetal position (as much as you can in an airplane seat) and prayed for Jabba to quickly find what he was looking for so he could stop accosting me with his oversized belly and crotch from what I could imagine, hadn’t seen action since before the first Bush was in office.

After what seemed like hours, Jabba found what he was looking for (a bag of Bugles) and sat back down. I untangled myself and relaxed back into my seat. That was, until Jabba finished the Bugles and wanted something new. For the next two hours, Jabba got up at least six time, every time shoving his oversized, unused crotch in my face. And it seemed that, with every snack he finished, his crotch grew in size until, the last time he got up for whatever snack he was craving, the zipper of his pants was centimeters from my nose.

That’s when I remembered The Crotch Girl. But, unlike her, I wasn’t going to sit in my chair and allow someone to usurp my personal space.

My answer? I got up from my seat every ten minutes for the rest of the flight. I’d tap Jabba on the shoulder  and say, in the fakes tone I could muster “I’m sorry but I have to”…then fill in the blank. “go to the bathroom”, “get something out of my bag”, “stretch my legs. I have restless leg syndrome”. On my sixth or seventh time asking him to get up, Jabba acquiesced to my ulterior motive, saying “Why don’t we just switch seats.” “If you want” I answered, knowing what my next move would be. We switched seats, and, as soon as Jabba was comfortable in the middle seat, I stood up, opened the overhead bin, searched for something in my bag and, as much as I could, I shoved my crotch in his face, wanting him to feel the same uncomfortable invasion that he put me through. I found a pen, sat down in my seat, turned to Jabba and said “Sorry if I just invaded your personal space.” “No problem” he said “It was my pleasure.” To that, he smiled, I threw up a little in my mouth and we spent the remainder of the flight with him smiling at me and me listening to my headphones, trying to ignore him.

My advice to personal space violators: Stop sticking your junk in other people’s business. It’s rude, uncouth and generally, not what someone is looking for.

My advice to everyone else: Based on the fact that my plan with Jabba failed, I think you have two options when someone violates your personal space with their crotch, or any other portion of their body. 1) You can grin, bear it and hope that it’s over soon or 2) Scream at the top of your lungs, explaining that you experienced a tragic event as a young person that makes it difficult for anyone to be within a one foot radius of your person. They’ll most likely assume that you were molested, not ask questions and respect your request.

My question to The Crotch Girl: Is the reason why you never said anything to our skeevy teacher because, like my airplane neighbor, you actually liked having his crotch shoved in your face? If so, all I can say is “Ewwwwwww”.


5 Responses to “The Crotch Girl and Personal Space Violators”

  1. mom Says:

    I have always loved the way you could tell someone off without them even knowing what just hit them (and with a smile no less) I am sure jabba has not forgoten you. xoxo mom

  2. Jarred Says:

    I had a similar experience once on an airplane. I elbowed the woman in the ass, and she stopped doing it.

  3. Greg Says:

    hysterical…totally lol-ed a few times on this one. too funny 🙂

  4. T Says:

    Dude, you’re a fucking idiot. I can’t believe you even went to grad school. You’re also an asshole.

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