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Odd Angles
Learning my place: I must have been 4 when I was in our family's kitchen and got my first impressive, permanent spot. I'm not talking about the Shout-It-Out kind of spot, although most of those happened in the kitchen as well. I am a magnet for anything red. To this day, I can't walk through an Italian restaurant without marinara leaping from plates and onto my shirt.
The spot I'm referring to is of the geographic variety. My position at our rectangular, gold-speckled, laminated kitchen table was at the end, opposite and farthest from my father. Prophetic, it turns out, but that's a story for another therapist, I mean time.
I held my kitchen table spot long after I moved 300 miles away. For nearly 30 years, whenever I visited, that spot was mine. That is, until my first son was old enough to sit in a highchair and I was relegated (by his doting Nana) to a lowly side position.
When we are young, spots are assigned to us by teachers and parents. "Assigned seating" is a dreaded phrase among school-age children, because it takes away their choice and gives it to a person who will base it on everything from behavior to convenience, maturity to alphabetical order, eyesight to gender. That decision-making process is taken quite seriously, by both the seat-er and seat-ee. That's why a child wildly screams at siblings, "HE'S IN MY SPOT!" It's also why the game musical chairs is wrought with tension -- players either lose or change their spot. It's sick, really.
In many situations, our spot reflects social status, respect, age and power. In the family car, for example, the oldest child has permanent dibs riding shotgun, taking precedence over any attempts to "call it." During awards shows, seats up front are offered to the most influential and popular attendees. In the family room, the head of household gets the most comfortable spot. At wedding receptions, the further a guest is seated from the bride and groom, the less familiar their relationship (e.g., fifth cousins once removed sit in the parking lot).
Because we are taught from an early age that spot location has social implications and is critical to maintaining order, we are besotted (or, rather, "bespotted") by our spots into adulthood. We order complete strangers to "save my seat." There's comfort in knowing an exclusive seat awaits, which is why we prefer concerts with designated seating to general admission. We look at a certain co-worker before sitting down at meetings and point to two chairs, silently indicating our spots. We hold our special seat by covering it with a playbill, coat, program or, as my uncles did at the racetrack, a racing sheet.
Whether or not we pick our own seat (insert sophomoric joke here), we become excessively loyal to the furniture that holds our derriere. After returning to a conference table after a long break between meetings, a colleague muttered, "You're in my seat." There was nothing marking or holding her territory, however, so I stood to defend my position. My "But ... ," however, was interrupted when her butt slid into the chair.
When it comes to "bespotting," comfort takes a backseat. We are loyal to folding chairs at school concerts and faithful, as it were, to unyielding pews. I know couples who were more wedded to their church seats then their church vows.
I decided to challenge myself the other night -- I sat in the red chair (my husband's spot) instead of my usual place on the couch. It was disorienting at first, my equilibrium thrown off by the new perspective. Everything was different. The dialog on a Seinfeld rerun seemed so fresh, I had to peel myself away when the phone rang. When I got back, my husband had recovered his spot in the red chair. It's like they say: A leopard can't change its spot.
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