Personal space
Don’t breathe on me, please.
I am mildly social in public bathrooms. While I am washing my hands I might say something like “That’s a cute pocketbook” or “I like your haircut” sometimes followed by “Where did you get it?” but I never touch people I don’t know, if I can help it. Ewww. Apparently, a lot of other folks don’t have this reservation. This situation for example:
I cracked up some women in a movie theater bathroom recently, because the faucets and paper towel dispensers were motion activated and didn’t work very well. I was just trying to dry my hands. Really. I had a hard enough time WASHING them to start with, and then couldn’t dry them. I got exasperated and started slowly waving my hands in front of the paper towel machine, and gravely intoned
“These are not the droids you are looking for. You will give me a paper towel.”
Lo and behold, the stupid machine yielded to my entirely sarcastic attempt to use The Force, and reluctantly spit out a towel. This was greeted by laughter and huzzahs from all the other women who were standing around helplessly shaking their wet hands because they didn’t want to wipe them on their clothes.
But here’s the thing: After I tricked the damn thing into working, I damn near had to swim through a heaving sea of bodies to get to the door, because all the silly bitches started crowding around THAT ONE TOWEL DISPENSER with no regard whatsoever for the fact that I was done and wanted OUT. There were two more towel thingies! Get off me, dammit! Stop breathing on me!
I can’t stand people, sometimes.