I grew up as the youngest in a large family. I had to wait until my sister, Lizzie, took off for college before there was room for me at the lightbulb-shaped dinner table. By then, I was old enough to answer the phone which was directly located beside my highchair. Perhaps a slight exaggeration, but only because there was a strict “no telephone during dinner” policy at my house.
As any child of a large Irish Catholic family knows, there is no such thing as the word “mine” in your vocabulary. Well, in my case, there was, but only because everyone else had already worn my hand-me-downs and were all too pleased to be rid of them. I was taught to share and play well with others. I was taught at a young age to compromise with my brothers and sisters. We tried as best we could to keep the family peace.
However, I have learned that as I’ve grown older, certain habits have become, well, loose, and like an athlete who has forgone practice, I’ve become a bit out of shape in terms of these qualities. Other personality traits have become Frankensteinian monsters, feeding on themselves and growing into very very bad traits. I’ve become a stubborn, selfish, closed off, policing bitch of sorts.
I am married to an only child who shares beautifully and compromises well. He lives by the rule “What’s mine is yours!” and ”live and let live”.
I don’t share these sentiments. What’s mine is MINE. Get your own. While he loves to be close, snuggle and share his personal space. I require about five feet of what I like to refer to as “Back the F up!” space. I like to tell people to imagine a bubble surrounding me and not to pierce its shell.
Also, as I’ve grown older, I’ve noticed that I “police” other people. I stick my nose where it doesn’t belong. I have a need to set the record straight to complete strangers. For instance, I despise line cutting. If someone tries to cut me in line, I make no bones about it. And I do so loudly and without remorse. Unlesss they are apologetic. Then I feel slightly guilty. But if they are oblivious or worse, sneaky, I put on my hat, take out my nightstick and regulate, Jersey-style.
And like Carrie Bradshaw, I can’t help but wonder: how did this happen? And really, I only wonder because every time I whine to Guy “I need some space!” or get into an argument with a stranger about where the Silver ticket line at the Inauguration really starts, he asks me “How did this happen?!”.
I contend that his mother ignored him too much as a child, leaving him to listen to NPR or Car Talk on his AM radio (the only form of entertainment he was allowed). Thus, he craves attention and closeness. He was left on his own to do whatever he wanted, never having to negotiate whether to play Lincoln Logs or House first, adn then getting rudely shafted when his turn came around. What turn? As an only child, he never had to wait for “his turn”. His favorite story is of his Halloweens growing up. He was the only child on his street, and so as he completed his tour at each house, the lights would turn off behind him as he made his way on to the next. No entitlement issues there!
I on the other hand, never felt ignored, but always surrounded, and often by enemies or traitors, reading to pounce on me with a head slap or steal my halloween candy. There was not a lot I could do about it. “It’s not FAIR!” was a common reprise in my family. And it wasn’t.
When Guy wonders why I need so much personal space, I like to relate to him one of my childhood memories: Back in those days, they didn’t have fancy SUVs with third row seating. Today’s “third row seating” was called the “back-back” of the station wagon we owned. And though the ”back-back” was second class seating, I was a third class citizen in my family by virtue of being the youngest. So where did I sit on those long family car trips to Maine, you ask? Well, on “the hump” in the back seat. Not on the seat itself, but along the floor, in the middle, where the brake shaft formed a hump on the flooring of the car.
And so when we compare childhood memories, Guy no longer wonders why I hate carpools and get car sick if I sit in the back seats of vehicles. He understands why I always complain that I need new clothes. He knows to let me choose my seat first at restaurants, and, well, to choose first in everything, really. And I’ve always got backup when I take on those evil line cutters.
