That is my foot you are standing on.

I know it might be hard to see, the train is crowded, but generally people stick out a couple inches down at the bottom bits and it hurts a lot when you step on them. And you know what's remarkable? You standing on my foot, and not the foot of the man beside me. It is never the foot of the man beside me.


You are tall. Even seated, you look like you're easily eight inches taller than me.


Your foot could easily stretch all the way across the aisle and touch the seat on the other side.

In fact, it is doing just that.

But you are on a rush hour train on a Tuesday morning. If I have to step over your leg in order to proceed into the interior of the train car, your foot is not in the right place.


If you'll be so kind as to notice, my bag is in one of three places while I wait for the overcrowded train to take me to my fate.


It is in my lap, should I be seated; pressed to the front of my torso, should I be standing; or between my feet, in either case.

It is not on the seat next to me.

It is not on my hip.

It is not on my back, smacking other commuters in the face.

And, most importantly, it is not robbing 4 inches of space from the woman seated beside me, crammed against her body because your precious lap should hold no things that are not prime young women you're trying to convince to come back to your place in Wrigleyville.


Shockingly, trying to sit on me is not going to go well for you.

You are not the first man to make this attempt, and you will not be the last.

At least once a month I have to clear my throat and put my hand up so that your ass makes contact with my elbow and forearm before I end up with you deposited on my person.


That arm position will come in handy once again when you, in a mostly empty train car, thrust said ass into my face.

And again when you refuse to move so I can get off the train and go walk my dog, reasserting the right of your ass to be touching my nose.

Because I should not have to grab you by the back of your sweater and shove you off of me to keep you from trapping me in my seat.

The first four verbal requests should be enough.


If I see your dick, or see you touching your dick, I will say something.


I was trained by an opera singer, I know how to make noise.

And I don't even care if you weren't looking at me at the time.

I will sing Hakuna Matata at the top of my lungs if it gets you to stop what you're doing and be ashamed of yourself for at least one nanosecond.


Our shoulders are going to touch.

This is neither remarkable, nor the end of the world. And (GASP) should our elbows touch as well, I owe you no apology.


But I will not bring my arms in front of my body to give yours more space. I will not crush my boobs so that you can elbow me in the ribs over and over while you play whatever iPhone game you just downloaded while waiting for the train. My tits are fantastic, and deserve just as much breathing room as your balls do, if not more. They are bigger, after all.


No, I will not allow you to take my leg space.

It is my leg space, and I deserve to use it as I will, even if that means you suffer the gross indignity of keeping your knees only six inches apart instead of ten.


It's status as my leg space will not change if you glare at me or try to slowly push my thigh with your own. Ballet and horseback riding and years of kicking asses without slowing down long enough to take names have given my thunder thighs with more than enough strength to combat you. Who needs a thigh gap when the alternative is being able to maintain my personal space bubble by sheer force of will?


And finally, though you did not ask, yes that is too much cologne. Even under the smell of homeless person urine and unbathed college freshmen, that is too much cologne.