Touchy Touchy

Last night I found myself at a concert. Voluntarily, of course. I didn’t just wake up there or get beaten, blindfolded and dragged there. Point is, there I was. We had to get through the swarms of spectators, my friends and I, and as we’re moving through, I realized I was purposefully touching almost everyone I passed. A hand on the shoulder here, a hand on the waist there. And afterward, I’m thinking, “what the heck am I doing? What merits such deliberate invasion of another’s personal space?” Because not only was I the culprit, for no sooner had I realized this that I saw everyone doing it. Touching and passing and holding and pressing, and for no REAL need. Mind you it’s all in the realm of appropriate behavior. We’re not cupping a feel or squeezing a rump as we pass. But why? What strange mentality falls over the crowd where suddenly touching almost every person you pass is so comfortably justified? Do we really feel we need to let that girl know we’re passing them or have to alert that dude we’re coming through in case he abruptly lashes out with his fists? Why would he lash out with his fists?
It’s the “collective concert conscience” I’ve decided. We’re all there, together, to experience the music and the performance. We like to know we’re all brothers and sisters, and united in the same music-consumer cause. And so when we pass said male or female, and gently hold their arm as we pass, or place our hand on the small of their back, we’re not saying “watch out, I’m coming through” but rather “I’m glad you’re here. Enjoy the show. You’re a beautiful person.” The spirit of the spectacle blows away all cares of your comfort zone. At least, I sure hope so.