![]() I will hunt down the nearest cocktail napkin or chopsticks wrapper, fold it to just the right thickness, wedge it under the short leg, give it a test, and then cry out DUDE THAT’S SO MUCH BETTER to the rest of the table. Oh, you should see me when I’m forced into action. I either flag down a waiter (or maitre d', or busboy, or owner, or President Biden) to fix the table, or I take it upon myself to MacGyver that shit without any help. We’ll reach for all the high-up boxes of cereal at the grocery store for you, I promise.Ī brief detour: Whenever I get a wobbly table at a restaurant, I can’t tolerate it for more than like eight seconds. ![]() You might think I’m being too assertive, that I am the patriarchy made flesh. But if you’re NOT a large person, or you’re my dog, I can understand how it might. I have a bad back and NEED to get myself in a comfortable position to avoid muscle spasms etc, and I’m so used to maneuvering around for space below any table that I never view that jockeying as a competition. I even have to do this shit with regulation size dining tables, accidentally tagging feet with my kids or lightly kicking the dog.Īll of this makes sense to me. ![]() Then I have to move my feet around to hunt out the right spot, going “I’m sorry” every few seconds to make it clear that I am NOT trying to play footsie with anyone. I may as well be sitting on a United flight. If the table in question has a single center leg and not four legs at the corners, that basically ruins my shit. Hence, I’ll open up the average dinner out by engaging in an awkward dance with my table partners to find our best marks. We need room, and this country is oddly stingy with it. That’s why you see me and other tallboys sticking our arms and legs in every available crevice we see. The average American’s body takes up more space than a fucking car, and yet I still find myself cramped inside planes, cars, restaurants, toilet stalls, and luxury resort pool cabanas. But otherwise, I’m just trying to exist in places that aren’t always built with a 6-foot-3 guy in mind. Sometimes I take liberties on this end every PSA against manspreading on the subway feels like it was posted as an admonishment to me and me alone. I’m not seven feet tall (though I’ll get there one day, you watch!), but as a big man myself I appreciate any and all space others can afford me, and I stand in solidarity with my towering brothers and sisters. ![]() And even if it WAS a big table, your guy probably saw this meeting as a chance to unfold his legs for the first time in like six weeks. All conference room tables should be so big that they could host an emergency United Nations summit: helps everyone feels important, and it leaves plenty of room for complimentary snacks. Your co-worker wasn’t being selfish here, he was just being seven feet tall and had nowhere else to put his body. What do we do about a guy who is that big taking up all the space? They were past the halfway point under the table! I apologized and moved my feet, but immediately thought I was not in the wrong here. Partway through the presentation, I extended my legs a bit to stretch out under the table, and I hit this guy’s feet. What is the proper etiquette for touching feet under a table in a mixed group? I was at a work conference sitting at a round table, and a guy that was probably seven feet tall sat down. Today, we're talking about bar games, Sour Patch kid distribution, weight loss, and more. And buy Drew’s book, The Night The Lights Went Out, while you’re at it. Got something on your mind? Email the Funbag. Time for your weekly edition of the Defector Funbag.
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