You are perfectly normal sized. You do not require all of that extra space. When I sit next to you on the train, I do not appreciate that you take up all of your seat and half of mine. I do not enjoy leaning into people's bottoms while you elbow your way around your shiny bright little computer doohikkey thing that sits on your lap in an obiously custom leather case.
Also, your dohikkey cover is starting to shred at the corner where it rubs on the handle of the other obviously custom leather case. Just thought you should know.
But to return to my main concern, you, sir, are perfectly normal-sized. I am not at all impressed by the size of your imaginary lats and neither am I in any way bemused by your scratchy, overstarched and oversized wool sportcoat. I checked, and noticed your armpits were neither on fire nor harboring angry hedgehogs. Your elbows are absolutely capable of resting within an inch or so of your ribs.
We are on a train, sir. A crowded one. This is not a busy diner and I'm not crowding in to steal your frenchfries. This is not a third grade math test and I'm not angling to sneak your answers. There is no burly linebacker charging your way and there are no sleds behind you needing to be dragged forward with your singular chest-icular forces. We are, as I mentioned, on a train. A crowded one. A train with many people for whom sitting is no longer an option. They are, however, resourceful enough to jostle for position in the ... shall we call them "aisles". They stand there, sir, with no option before them but to stand with their posteriors facing one of four directions. They can point their posteriors at the person to their left, the person to their right, or to the posterior in front of them or to the junk/posterior of the person behind them.
While you insist on elbowing for space and leaning me over into my best "tower of Pisa" impression, these people stand there in the aisles with noplace to relocate to. Do you know what happens then? Well, sir, I'll tell you. Physics does not allow your adjustment of personal space to dominoe out infinitely until the side of the train politely swells in a bubble of metal, glass and rubber. No sir. It does not. It refuses utterly to do so. And because of that, sir, I am leaning into the aisle with a not-yet-elderly person's hipbone, or a young professional's messenger bag, or a tourist's skirted behind grating into my shoulder or slumping onto my head or sweat-fully clinging to my arm.
I do not enjoy any of that, sir. Not in the least.
So the next time I have to sit next to you be advised that I will cough heartily onto your shiny little doohikkey into which you're taking such great pains to avoid looking like you're scanning for porn. I'll be sure to get little gobs of spit to land all over your hand, the dohikkey, and if I can muster the focus I'll get it on your cheekbones too. Who knows. Maybe I'll even throw up a little. Those tunnels are long and winding. I'm just saying.
Do you know why I would do this, Mister Perfectly-Normal-Sized-Man?
Because you are an ass. That is why.
Also, you smell like an unwashed mule in June. So there's that too.
That is all.