THINGS NOT TO DO

I AM THE TYPE of person who gets very annoyed at the type of people who don’t pay attention.

As a human being living on a planet with other human beings — as well as flora and fauna and inanimate objects and bugs, et cetera — my feeling is, you should have a basic sense of the space you take up in the world, and at least a general idea of who is occupying the space around you.

Essentially all I’m saying is, just be aware, okay?

Awareness is your responsibility as a social animal. If you’re on a crowded sidewalk, please, whatever you do, do not stop suddenly in the middle of it to check your phone. Because, as you should realize, there are myriad souls diligently traversing an assortment of distances behind you, and if you cease your own movement, they will by default have to cease theirs. That’s just simple physics. Which admittedly I know very little about, and I might have Googled How does physics apply to this or that situation at various times in my life on various quests to prove a point with more than just anecdotal evidence once in a while, but in any case, “That’s just simple physics” is a true statement, at least in this instance.

Because normal people understand that causing hindrance in the lives of others is unacceptable, always.

My husband says I get too worked up about this stuff.

I say he’s wrong.

We were at the airport once, coming home from somewhere, I don’t know, the location in this narrative isn’t important, though I will concede that yes, setting does play a vital role in conjuring up a better picture of a scenario. So let’s say we had just flown home from Fiji. Because I have always wanted to go to Fiji. So obviously what I’ve just admitted is that we were not flying home from Fiji. But that’s entirely beside the point.

So we’ve got all our bags, after obtaining them in the correct way, which, as every normal person with a functioning brain knows, involves extending respect to your fellow exhausted travellers by resisting the nearly irresistible — and okay yes, tantalizing — urge to yank a suitcase that you are quite sure is not your own, but that resembles your own, off the carousel, then proceed to turn it around and around as you search in vain for the identifying googog that you’d handily attached to your own luggage for quick and easy identification. So, bingo, where is the googog? Not here. Okay, heave the suitcase back into rotation, because that’s definitely not it.

Obviously, that sort of behaviour slows everyone down.

And we were bone-weary and once giddy with too many tiny bottles of Riesling but no longer, as the giddiness had been replaced by headaches, followed by anger. We had all of our bags, and all we wanted was to flash our customs form at the customs officer and have him or her wave us through the sliding doors. Because even though you know you’ve done nothing wrong, there is always that anxiety that the uniformed arm will point you in the wrong direction. Are they going to direct us down the hall? Are they going to direct us down the hall? And then the additional anxiety on top of that, about whatever it is you might be anxious about a stranger discovering, and then judging you for, and then noting that discovery in a file for the government, which will never, ever be erased. I do not want them to find the sadomasochistic erotica I purchased abroad. I do not want them to find the sadomasochistic erotica I purchased abroad. That sort of anxiety.

So we had our bags, and we displayed our customs form proudly and openly as befitted innocent civilians with nothing to hide, and then — thank God thank God thank Christ because that would have been embarrassing and there are some other things in there too, now that I think about it, Jesus, just imagine — the sliding doors parted and we were free and blameless and finally on our way home.

And then a woman stopped in front of us.

Came to a complete, dead stop on the exit ramp with her giant suitcase, one of those absurdly large hard-case ones that you see and you think, Really? Do you have an actual need for a suitcase that big? You couldn’t have left a few of your precious belongings at home? You had to bring absolutely every single thing that you own with you on your week-long vacation? Of course you did. Because you always have to be comfortable, and discomfort is anathema to you.

Because you are weak.

She stopped because she had spotted somebody she knew, someone who was there to pick her up or reunite with her or what have you. I don’t know, her mother or whoever. And she wanted to hug that person.

So there she was, directly in front of us, hugging, and I cleared my throat as loudly as possible to do her the favour of first offering this unspoken directive, to spare her the humiliation of a vocal public shaming, to instead wordlessly communicate the necessity for her to Move, move now, get out of the way, you are creating a traffic jam of flesh, and people have to physically move around you now, because you are in the way.

But she didn’t move. She only kept hugging, and obstructing.

So I pushed her.

I didn’t push her over. I merely pushed past her. More forcefully than I probably should have, okay. But I was impatient, and with that force I exerted I was also expressing the amalgamated impatience of every other bedraggled, jet-lagged globetrotter whose paths she was barricading. I drew strength from that communal wellspring of resentment. And I used my elbows a little, which my husband later said was cruel, but he can’t even watch the torture scenes on 24 so I have to describe what’s happening while he sits there with his eyes closed. Because even though he’s squeamish about the fingernail-pulling or electrical-cable-whipping or power-drill-applying or whatever, he doesn’t want to miss any of the action. And then he’ll turn around and want me to call him Jack Bauer during our lovemaking, and I do, because I love him, but I’m always think-ing, Jack Bauer has more manhood in his baby toe than you have in your entire, overly hairy and too-soft body.

So with that, we continued on, unfettered no more by ignorance and insensitivity.

And then my husband said to me, “You were kind of being a bitch back there, Angie.”

In that instant, I had to grapple with my own hideously antisocial compulsion to disrupt the smooth passage of the other members of our throng, because I very much wanted to halt my progress through the arrivals area and point a finger at my husband’s stupidly trembling chin and flaring nostrils. But I am a considerate and thoughtful person, so instead I kept moving and asked him, “What did you just say to me, Robert?”

And he said, “Just the whole thing back there. It was kind of unnecessary, don’t you think? That lady didn’t block our way on purpose. She probably didn’t even know we were behind her.”

And I said, “Robert, don’t you think that’s a problem? For a person in an airport — which is, by its very nature, a terminus for multitudes — to be so completely and utterly unaware of her surroundings?”

To which he replied, quietly, “She was hugging her mother, for God’s sake.”

And I said, “Robert, she is in a very busy place. She is one of thousands who have lives to live and loved ones to greet. Okay, sure, embrace your mother. But first step to the side, by God. Step to the side, and do not just stand there and make everybody else go around you.”

Robert said something else then, I don’t remember what, and I ignored him.

And we proceeded to the parking lot, and we found our car and filled the trunk with our regular-sized suitcases, and we drove home.

Then we went directly to our bedroom and unpacked our suitcases, and we put the dirty clothes into the laundry hamper and we put the clean clothes away in their proper places.

Then we brushed our teeth and washed our faces and applied moisturizer judiciously and changed into the fresh sets of pajamas we had laid out before our trip to welcome us upon our return.

Finally, we climbed into bed and pulled the covers up to our necks, and revelled in our apportioned sections of mattress before falling asleep almost immediately. At which point I dreamed about vast expanses of beautifully unobstructed exit ramps with a glorious abundance of unlimited space for every-one to use and enjoy.

Because those, right there, are the things that normal people do.