The Science of Dry Humping

“It seems to be that southern Europeans are just more intimate socially, whereas I like a lot of personal space – like, a mile from the nearest person is fine for me.” — Peter Steele

* * *

As soon as Olivier and I entered the checkout line, I jumped in front of him, hiding myself from the old lady who was getting in line right behind us.

“What are you doing?” he asked me.

“Creating a safety buffer. This way, the person behind us in the line can’t dry hump me.”

“Bad plan. Now I can dry hump you,” he said.

“That’s okay. We’re married. That falls under the ‘acceptable’ column on my list of public dry humping requirements,” I said, peering over his shoulder at the geriatric menace lurking behind him.

This is something that has become routine; creating a buffer zone in public whenever possible. For an American living in France, this is something that is absolutely necessary, unless you just happen to be a fan of close talkers, or strangers rubbing and pushing up against you.

Once you cross the Atlantic Ocean & land on French soil, you can kiss your personal space and your precious little comfort bubble goodbye.

There is a reason for this madness: the French simply do not require as much personal space as Americans do. They live in somewhat densely populated area – especially Parisians – so their brains are wired a little differently.

Almost every time I am in a store, or at a market, it happens. I’m standing there, looking at something, trying to make a decision on which jar of mustard to buy, or reading a label (Yes, I am one of those. Piss off.) and here comes someone, standing RIGHT next to me, or RIGHT in front of me. So, there I am, standing butt to gut with a stranger, snuggled up against the cans of mushrooms and flageolets.

The most difficult thing is summoning all of my self control in an effort not to bludgeon the offender with a jar of asparagus. In their mind, they are doing nothing wrong. While this behavior may seem rude, creepy, or even threatening to an American, it is normal for a French person and isn’t considered to be out of the ordinary at all.

Unfortunately, spending a few years here among the space-invading dry humpers isn’t something that you just get used to. It’s been almost 5 years and my comfort bubble is still just as big as it ever was. The only difference is, I now feel an even more savage need to defend my bubble at all costs.

Of course, this happens in all sorts of places when I go out and about. It isn’t limited to shopping. I’ve discovered that if I am standing in an open space chatting with a friend, a passerby will inevitably make a path right for me, bumping into me rather than walking AROUND me.

In a crowded elevator, when a few people exit, Americans will spread out, taking advantage of the open space. French people will stay right where they are… even if it means being smashed up against another body.

You may even find that in the métro, someone is getting all up in your grill rather than standing or sitting in an unoccupied area.

I’ve asked Olivier about it countless times because aside from being irritating and unpleasant, I just find it baffling.

“You know what I don’t get,” I said. “Two objects cannot exist in the same space at the same time, they have to be in their ‘own’ space, or they might occupy the same space, but at different times. It’s a fact… ’cause it’s mother fucking science.”

“Yep,” he agreed. “Go science.”

“Seriously,” I said. “These people are trying to occupy my space at the same time as me. Why are they trying to fight science?”

“Maybe you should try peeing on more things… to mark your territory.”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “That’s a good idea.”

Aside from urinating all over France, I have tried various tactics to protect my bubble. I’ve attempted to make myself bigger to fend off potential violators, a tactic widely known back home in Colorado to ward off mountain lions.

In the short story, “Slumming”, by Chuck Palahniuk, one of the characters carries around a “fist-sized lump of orange roughy” that is 4 days old as repellent, stating that it “beats a bodyguard for keeping people away.”

I thought about this, pondering the line in the book, “Stink for privacy, the new way to protect personal space. Intimidation by odor.” As much as I do like orange roughy, I’m not sure that I can convince my husband that I am still sexy with a lump of rotting fish in my pocket. Cheese, maybe… but probably not fish.

Then I thought, well… if you can’t beat the Romans when in Rome, then join ’em. So, in an effort to fit in, I began practicing my very own dry-hump stealth attack, but I just don’t have the knack for it.

It looks like the only solution is to deal with it and continue elbowing old ladies in the ribs, hiding behind my husband and shopping carts. The fact is, it’s a cultural difference that isn’t going to change. I know it’s a fact because, again… mother fucking science.

The science of proxemics.