Personal Space

Ben and I haven’t dabbled in our individual hobbies since getting married. Only recently did Ben play guitar and did I pick up the camera again. It’s difficult to focus on individual interests when we’re always within view or less than fifteen feet apart from one another. “Me” time disappeared after we moved into a one room apartment.

Ben reminds me of the predatory animals featured on National Geographic. He constantly lies in wait. Ready to pounce, attack when least expected, smother me with snuggles and kisses.

Last weekend, I vocalized my need for space, room to breathe after 72 hours of marriage lockdown in our apartment. I retreated to the couch with my computer so that it felt like we were in different rooms. Ben stayed in the kitchen. He contemplated following me, but my “talk to the hand” gesture and “don’t come near me” stare kept him at bay.

Ten minutes later, Ben nonchalantly scoped out my area, stretched, and strolled toward the couch. He flopped down next to me and every so slowly, stealthily, inched closer. And, closer. And, closer.

I sighed heavily. He feigned shock.

“Babe, I moved to couch to have personal space.”

I emphasized my message with nonverbal communication: me marking my territory, me drawing a line down the middle of the couch, me pointing to his empty seat in the kitchen, me using my fingers as stick people repelling from one another.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But, sweetie, you know how I am. You know I like to be close, to snuggle and love you.”

That I do. That I do.