Excuse Me, You're In My Bubble

I was at the self-checkout thingy at King Soopers about an hour ago, when I came as close as I've ever come to throttling a woman and her child to death. I have a relatively large personal space bubble. For most Americans, it's like eighteen inches. For People in Japan, it's about 12 inches. My bubble is about three feet. If you come into my bubble for too long, I will break your legs. Anyway, this woman was standing about ten inches away from me, even though there were six other people in the line for the self-checkout lanes. She apparently didn't realize that the function of a line is more than just to organize the people who are in her way. Her son moved in even closer than she'd been. He was standing so close to me, I could practically smell the Ritalin. I finished my purchase, and waited impatiently for my receipt. As it slowly printed out, the woman had already begun piling her stacks of crap onto the shelf. I couldn't believe it. She was freaking breathing down my neck. I walked away without giving them the hairy eyeball or anything like that, a feat I happen to consider greater than the resurrection of the dead. I did, however, announce audibly to everyone in the immediate area that this woman and her son were "vultures." I actually came just about *this* close to kicking her in the neck. For seriously.