PDAs: How far is too far?

I have recently had cause to ponder the concept of PDAs. More specifically, my contemplation has focused on that point at which a PDA is no longer cute or nice, but is in fact cringe-worthy or distasteful; something that you need to draw your eyes from but can’t - akin to a train wreck.

I recall having conversations with friends about PDAs, or (as known by the less-erudite) public displays of affection, and we thought we may, in fact, have been jealous. At that time, my friends and I were all single and so wondered if our disdain of open displays was some sort of defense mechanism. Easier to scoff at, than admit that we wanted to be the ones smooching in public.

I must, however, admit to my own prejudice against PDAs. In fact, what I remember most about my first love (well, first boyfriend – as defined at 16 years of age!) was becoming aware of my antipathy to PDAs. The boy lived in a nearby town and we met through sport. He was very sweet and our relationship very innocent (I was a very naïve 16 yr old). While I was the one who pursued him relentlessly but once snagged, he was the one who wanted to put our relationship on display. Though a great deal of organisation went into our holiday and weekend meetings, I recall balking at his eagerness to walk around my hometown holding hands. Needless to say, after succumbing to my wiles, his public enthusiasm for me meant that he didn’t last long (much to my later regret!).

My neuroses aside, I must admit that PDAs can sometimes be quite charming. An elderly couple wandering along the beach holding hands; a peck on the cheek from one partner to another as they separate at a busy street corner in the city. All very sweet.

So then I wonder, at what point exactly does a cute PDA become something that causes one to shudder distastefully?

We have all seen them. From my own very extensive research (aka everyday life), they usually seem to involve either: a) teenagers; or b) very drunk people in a pub at the end of the night. Though both can make me gag, I find I can usually forgive these transgressors.

But it is those others that make me cringe – and judge. I have been stuck on a bus with them. Behind them. Near them. Constant kissing; with lots of noise. While some allowances can be made for the smitten few in a new relationship, there must be a limit to what the rest of us should be subjected to.

The PDA issues has been on my mind because once a week I catch a late bus into work and more often than not there is a young woman also waiting at the bus stop. She is usually there with her partner / boyfriend / male-friend of some sort. He doesn’t actually catch the bus himself. It appears as if he merely walks the 20 metres there with her and then returns home after we have left.

They stand or sit tightly wrapped around each other. There is much smooching. Much cuddling. Much adoration. They straddle each other on the bus shelter seat, or entwine their legs. It is impossible to join them on the seat at the bus shelter without feeling like some sort of voyeur. I find myself scowling as I try to look anywhere-but-at-them; and in true me-fashion, I analyse these feelings of scorn. Assessing if I am jealous that I don’t have someone coming to wave me off to work for the day, or even wistful at the idea that someone could care enough about my comings or goings. But, no. Condescension wins out. Sweet, I wonder? No weird, I decide!

If she was going off to war it would be one thing; if the journey into the city was perilous rather than bloody long and tedious, that would be another thing.

So, given the unlikelihood of either of these scenarios I wonder then, why this guy feels compelled to accompany his partner the short distance to the bus stop and make out with her in front of an unsuspecting public, before releasing her for the day. And why does she feel the need to cling to this guy before stepping onto the bus.

The suspicious and cynical side of me wonders if he is in fact emotionally and physically controlling and the farewell is his way of marking his territory, akin to a dog peeing around his neighbourhood. If so, it is kinda wasted cos neither myself nor Joanie (the 65yr old tea lady who also catches that bus) weren’t really looking to make a move on his honey…though perhaps I shouldn’t speak for Joanie?!

Or maybe they are so madly in love they cannot bear to be apart one more moment than necessary. (Pause here for obligatory dry-retching!) Whatever the reason, there is surely no justification for the extent of the farewell. I cannot help but think it is immature and extremely inconsiderate to those around who find anything more than a quick peck and cuddle to be over the top. And I think there are many who do. Surely one of the things about an intimate relationship is just that. Intimacy. You share it with each other. Not everyone else!

Untouched

It isn’t uncommon for me to feel tired and emotional as I head home from work at the end of the day. The trip home yesterday (however), was worse than usual. I didn’t feel well. I’d had a long day, had a headache and was tired, and… had a pilates class to go to before I could eat, sleep or just loll around feeling sorry for myself.

The bus was busy and I noticed the rather cute young man as he got on, before he came and sat next to me.

Normally I feel self-conscious when it comes to bus seating arrangements. I am not petite by any means, so I worry about whether I leave enough room on the seat for my neighbour as I cram myself against the side of the bus like a demented contortionist.

It was a slow trip. My neighbour pulled out a book. I lamented that I’d left my headphones at home and had nothing to read. But I was so tired, I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes.

About 15 minutes and barely any distance travelled, I looked down. Despite his ‘slacks’, I could tell he had nice legs.

They were long with his thighs reaching the seat in front. They weren’t narrow and they looked strong. Even encased in dark slacks.

I noticed his hands. That was when I almost lost it.

They weren’t amazing hands. But they were male hands.

I was completely overcome with a sense of loss. A loss for something I do not have and, in many ways, have never experienced. The sense of touch, of affection and of love.

For the next short while, I ached. Not for him specifically, but I yearned to reach out and touch his hand. Or for him to hold mine. The sensation, the desire was almost palpable. That sense of touch, of intimacy.

I wanted to cry. The tears hovered, but remained unshed, instead blurring my vision. In that moment I felt devastated. Completely alone and perhaps always to be so. I had only seen my niece the day before and we had hugged. Two weeks before I had seen my parents and I know we hugged.

But there, on that bus, and in that moment, I felt bereft of human contact, or more importantly, of love and affection. I longed to grab his hand, to feel his touch. To feel that contact.

A massage therapist once told me that it isn’t uncommon for female clients (those who are widowed or divorced in most cases) to cry when she massages them. The feeling of being ‘touched’ is more than a physical one. It also touches their heart and their soul.

In my darker moments I worry that I go through life untouched. An emotional wreck at times, but with a cold, unyielding, untrusting and unforgiving heart, set up to protect itself from others.

In the meantime, the bus trip continued and I sat there with my eyes glued to the hand next to me - tempting and teasing me at the same time. I tried to imagine the happiness, the pleasure, joy and comfort that a hand (in mine) could hold. But instead I was confronted with the solitude, isolation and lonlieness before me.