It’s Mardi Gras in New Orleans, booze flowing, screaming bead babes, and reveling crowds bunched together like plantains in a fry pan, when a mere acquaintance invades my personal space, so close that I detect the odor of her dental caries. She virtually glues onto my chest, her killer breath streaming through parted lips close enough to kiss mine. Only it’s not mine she wants to kiss:

“I want to alert you,” she shouts, her tartar breath nearly knocking me out, “that if you really do divorce your husband, I’m going after him.”

Even in crowds, I covet my private space.

I reel backwards. “Mouthwash!” I silently scream. “Take the man, but if you must invade my personal space, kindly get some mouthwash.” I flee her bad breath and aggressive trespass. Even in crowds, I covet my private space.

I consider personal space sacred. The area approximately an outstretched arm’s distance surrounding me is my comfort zone, which when invaded without permission upsets my equilibrium, repels or disgusts me, and induces vertigo, unless, of course, it’s an intimate pal who enjoys automatic access. But total strangers and mere acquaintances ought to honor my aura.

Rare exceptions are tolerated; for instance, the gorgeous stranger in St. Petersburg, Russia, who without warning walked up to me, embraced me like I was his cheap Ninotchka, planted a passionate vodka-laced kiss on my lips, and walked off without further disrupting my privacy. Boorishly breathtaking.

A sense of power, or conquest, must derive from violating another’s personal space.

A sense of power, or conquest, must derive from violating another’s personal space. You know the type; they belly up to you like you’re the trough from which they are going to feed, mouth breathe and malinger, and if you try backing away, follow you like a dance partner, cling like static on nylon; their hovering suffocates.

Aside from crowded trains, airport lobbies, parades and protest demonstrations where folks seem to voluntarily congeal into one massive organism, most of us covet our comfort zone. Yet, as Internet relationships surge, inperson encounters dwindle and the attendant social skills corrode. Today, an uptick of socially clueless personal space invaders threaten the arm’s-length rule.

Might the bustle enjoy a popular comeback?

Happily, fashion history bestows some shrewd tactics for deflecting the space invaders: Victorian era hoop skirts, broadbrimmed hats, expansive baskets full of cut flowers clutched against the bosom, and, most excellently, the bustle all represent brilliant tactics that delay a perp’s advance, at least long enough for the fashionista to decide if she wishes to avoid, or encourage, an invasion of her personal space. Bustles prove especially defensive against invaders approaching surreptitiously, unannounced, from the rear. Might the bustle enjoy a popular comeback? Paris runways were rife with bustles for fall 2013.

Extremely pointed shoes, stylish even today, offer excellent defenses, and now, the trendy addition of spike studdings on the backs and sides of both men and women’s shoes guarantee that an invader can be repelled with one swift thrust of an outstretched foot.

The point is: “Back off, Bub. It’s arm’s length until I invite you inside my privacy zone. Hug a tree, but not me. I don’t need your spittle, and you don’t need spikes in your shin.”

On the other hand, if you wish to place an enchanted kiss on my lips, one that instantly transforms me into a Botticellian goddess, my space is your space; just, please, don’t drool.