Lift etiquette is awkward. Here we are, confined in a square metre, stuck for that tiny but agonising amount of time.
The lifts for my apartment have mirrors on four sides, but if I check myself out, the caretaker does too. I can almost feel the security camera swizzle and zoom in on my forehead.
My general rule is that if someone enters the lift, I will greet them and hold the door open. However living in an affluent suburb, my neighbours are usually too good to even bother responding to plebeians like myself. If in the odd chance I do begin a conversation, it will end abruptly with a ‘ding’. I might try to say ‘Have a good-‘, but the doors have already closed.
Murphy’s Law has it that when you’re at your most unattractive, you will encounter extremely attractive people. There is a pool, gym and sauna in my building, which means that when this happens, I’m either:
a) dripping with chlorine in a ratty towel
b) dripping with sweat oozing from every pore
c) dripping with sweat panting like an excited dog
Yum. I’m usually too embarrassed to even enter a lift when this happens, but that would mean dripping up 8 flights of stairs.
Why else do I hate lifts? Did I mention I’m claustrophobic?
