By Jeanne Martinet

Just to set the record straight: In spite of what the characters may say in my novel Etiquette for the End of the World, I myself do not believe the Apocalypse is happening this week. But end of the world obsessions do intrigue me. There is obviously a reason people like to toy with the idea of “the End.” Whether this human tendency is related to our fear of death, our fear of change or just an inherent addiction to fear itself, it certainly seems to be eternally seductive. Perhaps it’s not so much a fear of change as it is a wish for change, for a shake-up. I mean, why would everyone be so focused on the end of the world if we didn’t secretly wish something would happen? Maybe we want a do-over. An erasing of the blackboard. After all, times of change are when we grow and learn, even when it is painful.

I believe New Yorkers are more practiced at dealing with endings than most folks.

Things change so quickly here. Our favorite restaurants and stores are always disappearing (for me, the hardest was Docks on the Upper West Side, where for years I took my houseguests for lobster and martinis). We are always saying goodbye to something in our city, in our neighborhoods. CBGB. Tavern on the Green. H&H bagels. Lenox Lounge. I recently heard the Stage Deli has closed, and there are rumors that the Ziegfeld Theater may close soon. How often do we walk down the street and think, “Wait, wasn’t there a wonderful mom-and-pop sandwich shop right here? Where did it go?” It seems to happen in the blink of an eye. As New Yorkers, we are always saying goodbye, grieving the loss of memory-filled parts of our environment.

A couple weeks ago I read in the Times that Steinway Hall on 57th Street might be shutting its doors, because of the building being sold. And so (happily, as it turned out) last week I decided to take the time to go there. I was struck at once by the beauty of the building itself—a Beaux Arts landmark, featuring a 19th-century Viennese crystal chandelier and a high ceiling decorated with allegorical scenes of lions, elephants, goddesses and nymphs. The atmosphere is hushed and solemn, the gleaming pianos made more thrilling because of the expectation of sound they can produce. I was meditating on all this magnificence when suddenly a man seemed to “apparate” from behind a door.

He was wearing a crazy clown tie, one that stuck out stiffly into the air in front of his chest and was twisted like a corkscrew. This person, it turned out, is the amazing “Lynx,” the visual artist-in-residence at the Steinway factory, who paints abstract paintings on pianos—textured finishes that utilize a technique he calls “Atmospheric Refractionism.” Lynx gave me a personal tour of some of the back rooms, and explained how he paints to music, imbuing the piano with the notes as he works. It was a magical encounter. It put me in a good mood for two days.

If this particular “ending,” the closing of the Steinway showroom, had not been looming, I probably never would have gone there that day; I would have missed this wonderful adventure. The moral of the story is that endings often present opportunities—if not for new beginnings, at least for new experiences. This is a concept that is in fact much closer to what the Maya actually believe about 12/21/12—that this year’s winter solstice marks a time for renewal, the beginning of a brand-new 5,125-year age.

On the other hand, there’s still time to purchase a $48,000 steel and fiberglass survival pod from Chinese farmer/inventor Liu Qiyuan. Do you think he’ll take MasterCard?

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction; her latest is the novel Etiquette for the End of the World. She can be reached at JeanneMartinet.com

Almost instantly, I realized my mistake. The only other chair on the terrace was occupied by a blowsy woman who immediately began talking nonstop about her Lhasa apso puppies. Where she got them, where she walked them, what she fed them, how much she loved them. Even how she dressed them. All attempts at subject changing—or at a back-and-forth conversation—failed.

With a sinking heart, I realized I had fallen right into the clutches of a human Venus flytrap. I was stuck. Now that I was already seated and the woman was talking to me so intently, it was going to be nearly impossible to get back up.

There are several good reasons for sitting down at a party where most people are standing up. You may simply be physically too tired to stand; you may be having trouble managing a plate of food while standing; or you and a friend may be eager to have a tête-à-tête without being interrupted. But be aware there is always a danger to sitting.

Even if it’s next to someone you feel you’d love to talk to, once you are sitting down, you may lose your mingling momentum. You may find yourself thinking, “This is such a comfortable chair; maybe I’ll just observe from here for the rest of the night. What’s so great about talking to a lot of people I don’t know anyway?” Don’t give in to this feeling! You can sit when you get home.

But mainly, sitting is to be avoided because it’s extremely hard to get free of someone who is really talking at you and not to you. At most cocktail parties, it’s fairly easy to move away from someone you don’t want to talk to—and toward someone you do—without being rude. You simply say you need to get a drink or use the restroom or you just fade away into the general melee. But when you are sitting down, escape becomes much more problematic; you are committed. You have, in fact, made a statement of non-movement by the very act of sitting.

There are a couple techniques that I have found work pretty well in this situation. The first is “follow the leader.” Ask Ms. Flytrap if she would like to come inside with you to get a drink or something to eat. If she says no thank you, you’re scot-free; if she says yes, then once you have her on her feet and amidst a crowd of people, you can use any number of other cocktail party escape tactics to gently extricate yourself.

One of my most popular and controversial mingling maneuvers is something I call “the human sacrifice,” wherein you basically palm the person off on someone else. (This sounds cruel, but is an extremely common ploy.) This is easier if you are on your feet but it can also be done from a sitting down position, in the following way: Locate someone nearby and get his attention. (Wave him over if you must.) Lure him into the conversation by tossing a comments up at him—for example, you can ask him if he has any preconceptions about Lhasa apsos, as if you are playfully taking a poll.

The minute the new person even smiles at you or at the flytrap, get up, indicating your place, and say, “Would you care for a seat?” Or even, more aggressively, “Would you save my seat for a second?” This latter gambit is a bit wicked, because it’s almost impossible for the new person to refuse. But after all, all’s fair in love and mingling. (Of course, you won’t come back. You will be unavoidably waylaid.)

So what did I do to escape from being totally Lhasa apsoed? I employed the blunt but effective “note from my doctor” excuse. I interrupted the woman right in the middle of her recitation of possible names for her puppies with: “I’m so sorry, but this chair is terrible for my back, I realize. I’m going find some other place to sit inside. But it’s been so lovely meeting you.”

Of course, I did not sit down anywhere else. Not until I got home to my Lhasa apso-free apartment.

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

The author had already started reading and I was loath to disturb the proceedings by walking in front of everyone. Why didn’t the early comers fill up the first row? I thought, annoyed. Why are these seats always the last ones to go?
Obviously, there are many events for which first-row seats are scarfed up instantly, like a fashion show or a celebrity concert. But at smaller venues—church events, school events, readings, lectures and other casual presentations—no one ever seems to want to sit in the front. And just as there are reasons for certain traffic patterns on highways, there are deep-seated (pun intended) psychological causes for this behavior.

For one, there is a general sense that the front-row seats are reserved for special guests—the mother of the bride, the publisher of the book, close family members or other honored guests. People often feel presumptuous or grabby about taking the “best seats” in the house.

The front row is also conspicuous. To get there, unless you are early, you have to pass in front of everyone else in the audience. Then there is the worry that once you get all the way up there—with all eyes on you—you will discover that the seat’s already taken; you had not been able to see the head of the small child sitting there or the coat that someone has put down, indicating it is saved. Now you have to turn around, rejected, and make your way to the back again.
If you are seated in the front row, you’re more exposed to everyone else in the room. The rest of the audience can see you but you can not see them. You have nothing to look at but the stage or the podium, while people further back can amuse themselves before the show by surveying the other audience members.

Worse than that, you are also potentially vulnerable, or noticeable, to the person who is speaking or performing. One of the biggest audience phobias of all is the fear of being engaged by the presenter. (This might stem from memories of being in the classroom as a child and being afraid to be called upon.) While usually this is a groundless fear, if you are attending a stand-up comic’s performance, sitting in the front row is akin to being on the front lines in a war—you are open to attack, on the front lines, with no protective barrier between you and whatever jibes may be lobbed your way.

But perhaps the most common reason for front row phobia is the fear of getting stuck. New Yorkers attend more performances and presentations per capita than anywhere else in the country—as a result, we are jaded enough to know that many of them are going to be things we will want to get out of before they are over. It’s not easy to escape from the front row (though it is actually not that different from being in the second or third row), both because of its geographical location in the room as well as its higher level of visibility. You can’t exactly sneak out without being seen.

Even if we love the event, as public transit users, we are used to situating ourselves near the exit in the subway or bus or anywhere we are in a crowd. We don’t want to be trapped one minute longer than necessary; we are always impatient to be able to get on to our next thing.

This strategic positioning practice is not restricted to people who don’t like to sit in the front row. There are also people who insist on sitting on the aisles, making it necessary for latecomers to climb over them to get to the vacant middle seats. I call these people “Edge Hogs” and find their behavior even more annoying than the front row avoiders. There should always be some seats left empty at the back and on the aisles for people who come in late.
Of course, I thought as I blushingly made my way up the center aisle to the front row, none of this behavior is nearly as bad as coming in late!

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction.

It can be a wonderful thing—that phone call that comes like a wish fulfilled when you don’t have plans, you don’t feel like working and you are deep in the doldrums. Suddenly, there is a friend’s voice saying, “I have tickets to a show tonight, are you by any chance free?” And voilà! Your evening is transformed into something enjoyable and unforeseen.

Last-minute invites—especially when they involve theatrical performances— are often things to be greatly appreciated. However, if you have a friend who only calls you at the last minute, you may not appreciate it so much. (“In about 45 minutes, I’m going to see this movie I’ve been wanting to see; want to go with me?” or “I’m sitting at this bar not far from you, why don’t you come out and join me?”) The people who are guilty of this kind of invite may call themselves free spirits, but is it really devilmay-care behavior or just devilish?

Sometimes, the last-minute invite is really what it sounds like, from someone to whom you are a last-minute consideration. Now, I want to be clear: I know many people who live and die by the relaxed, never-know-what-I-am-going-to-be-doing-tomorrow social credo. There are also those rather enviable people I meet who are members of a small but solid “crew” of friends, so that they don’t have to bother to make plans; their social life, while it may be a bit predictable, just happens automatically—albeit with the same six or eight people.

However, I think most New Yorkers over a certain age (30) and under a certain age (75) are busy enough that keeping a calendar is essential; indeed, most people I know are booked up at least several weeks in advance. They are juggling social lives with work commitments and family commitments, so if you really want to see them, you usually have to make plans with them way beforehand.

But there can be good reasons for a last-minute invitation. It can mean you simply did not anticipate you were going to have this particular hour or two of leisure time. It can mean you just got tickets to something unexpectedly. It can mean that someone else cancelled you at the last minute.

Obviously, there is a difference between a last-minute invitation to a movie and one to the opera. If a friend is going to take me to the Met because someone just dropped 10th row center orchestra tickets into his lap, he can call me as late as he wants and I’ll be delighted. But it doesn’t really matter what the last-minute invite is for, as long as it is not this friend’s standard MO and as long as it is proffered the right way.

Always preface the last-minute invite with: “I’m sorry, I know it’s last minute.” If you have an extra ticket to something, it is always gratis for the other person. If the person is not available, you must say something like, “Oh, I figured you might not be free at the last minute. Let’s make another plan right now for when you are available.” This says to the person, “I’m not just trying to fill my evening, I do really care about seeing you.” Once in a while, you’ll come across a person who feels entitled and expects everyone to be at their beck and call.

This person will call at the last minute to get together and, if you are not free, is extremely annoyed. This attitude obviously adds injury to insult. There are also rare instances when someone may invite you at the last minute because they feel obligated for some reason; they want to get credit for inviting you but they don’t really want you to come and are actually hoping you won’t be free. (Beware the party invitation that arrives the morning of the day of the party.) Of course, habitual last-minute social planning can be a corollary of intimacy.

With your best friends, there is never any problem with a spur-of-the-moment plan, because if you are NOT free at the last minute, it’s no big deal; you will see the person again soon enough. I know I tend to be a “Martinet” about matters of social protocol; I do insist that we need to behave with as much courtesy to each other as we can. But when all is said and done, I would not want a life without the possibility of a last-minute invite. It’s nice to know that your day can change in the blink of an iPhone.

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

But it’s not for the reasons you may think. I envy married people because they have a built-in excuse to get out of absolutely anything.

The other day, I was caught unawares by someone asking me to do something I did not particularly want to do. I hemmed and I hawed, I prevaricated and stalled, but in the end I ended up just doing it because I could not figure out how to get out of it. That very same week, I called up a married neighbor who had borrowed my best ice bucket weeks before but had never returned it.

“F-ing Jim,” she swore. “I told him you needed that back! Without asking me, he took it to the office for a party they were having. I’ll bug him about it again this weekend.” That’s when it hit me what was missing from my life: a built-in, ready-made scapegoat.

Over the years, I’ve come to believe that one of the main duties of a spouse is to be a scapegoat. (I believe promising to serve in this capacity is in the marriage contract). For example: “Sorry I’m late—my wife had a horrible sinus infection and I had to take her to the doctor.” Or “Oh dear! I would have so loved to come but Joe forced me to stay home to help him with this work thing.”

Or “Darn, it turns out Sue made another date for us Saturday and neglected to tell me, as usual.” Or “My better half says I have to be home by 6 p.m.—or else.” Or “I can’t be on your fundraising committee because my spouse has me signed up for so many other things.” And the most common one of all: “He/she never gave me your message.”

When your spouse is the scapegoat, the only blame that can be leveled at you is that you married the wrong person.

Couples have a decided advantage when it comes to the social arena. Let’s face it: When you are single and you feel like staying home alone rather than accept an invitation to a social event, you really can’t use that as your excuse. After all, “I have to wash my hair tonight,” does not really fly, while “I have to wash my wife’s hair”—well, that’s a whole different story.

Often, we’re not even sure we want to get out of whatever it is. We merely want to hedge our bets, to delay committing to whatever it is. Couples can easily make use of the handiest of all staving-off techniques, commonly known as the Spousal Consult, or the I-Have-To-Check-With-My-Wife ploy. Perfect for pop invitations, this dodge was ingrained in most of us as children (“I have to ask my mother.”) The beauty of the Spousal Consult is that it allows for the possibility that you may eventually accept the invitation—or that you will “forget” to check with your spouse at all, thereby letting the whole thing dissipate.

Last but not least, there’s the good old good cop/bad cop. A great ruse for married couples, but also quite doable with roommates or siblings, this dodge was custom-built for two. Let’s say you have guests who won’t leave your house. Dinner and coffee are long over. When you can’t stand it anymore and you are beginning to fear these people will never leave, the person cast as the bad cop yawns, stands up and excuses himself with, “I’m afraid I’ve got to hit the hay—I’m dead on my feet. Good night, Mr. and Ms. Guest. Don’t forget to let in the cat, sweetheart.”

After the bad cop has disappeared, the good cop apologizes for her partner while emphasizing how much it really is past his customary bedtime. Even a braindead guest gets the message at this point and packs it in. Good cop/bad cop also works like a charm for quick exits: “I would love to stay at your wonderful party, but Charlie is falling asleep on his feet.” Or “I have to hang up now—my wife is standing over me with a rolling pin in her hand and the children are screaming.”

I don’t even want to get into how handy kids can be as excuses. Suffice it to say, once you are a parent, you have a get-out-of-it-free card for, like, the rest of your life.

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can reach her at JeanneMartinet.com.

By Jeanne Martinet

As most savvy New York hosts know, when you throw a large cocktail party, you can expect approximately 60 percent of the invitees to attend. Of the 40 percent who don’t come, most have a scheduling conflict or illness and are truly sorry to be missing the affair.  So, what if you immediately offered these people an alternative—a kind of make-up party?

That’s exactly what my friends Ned and Donna did. They held a big cocktail party one Saturday night and invited the people who sent “regrets” to a smaller party the very next Saturday.

Now, Ned and Donna are people who do not entertain very much, so at first it sounded crazy to me that they would decide to have two parties in a row. But this nonhosting tendency on the part of this couple is in fact why the double party idea was perfect for them. Once they had managed to find the impetus to entertain, whipped their house into guest-ready shape (cleaning it from top to bottom, even rearranging the furniture) and stocked the larder with staples like soda, snacks and booze, the second, smaller party was a veritable snap for them. They even had leftover wine and supplies that the guests from the first party had brought them.

Having two parties in a row may sound exhausting, but it can be much more efficient than spreading them out. You can pay back everyone you owe an invitation in a spectacular one-two punch. Really, it’s like getting out all the painting equipment to paint a room and then deciding that, while you’re at it, you may as well paint another small room at the same time.

Also, having a second gathering is a great way for the hosts to soak up every bit of fun they can; after working hard to make a party happen, hosts can feel it is over too quickly. Most people I talk to who, for one reason or another, had dreaded hosting a party are so energized afterward they wonder why they don’t host more often. Might as well have another party while you are in the mood!

You can also employ a similar version of this kind of party clustering when you find you have more than one dinner party you need to give. Instead of hosting one dinner one month and one another month, have a dinner party weekend. Make one big pot of something hearty and fabulous—say, oxtail stew, boston butt or chili–then hold two dinner parties one after the other.

Contrary to what one might think, the second set of guests are not getting shortchanged, because by the second dinner you are probably more relaxed (having cleaned and shopped like a madwoman before the first one), and often the Italian pot roast you spent hours making is even better the second day.

Of course, in the case of back-to-back dinner parties, the guests must not know about each other at all. While a make-up cocktail party is like being offered a wonderful consolation prize, being part of a double dinner party weekend can seem more like a prize cut in half.

The one rule to follow when hosting consecutive parties is that you can never let the people at the second party get the idea that your first party was in any way more enjoyable than the one you are having with them right now. You want them to feel fortunate and much sought-after, as if you are going to extra trouble just for them—which, in a sense, you are.

The people who could not attend the primary event should feel flattered that you have gone out of your way to extend your hospitality to them. It’s as if you are saying to them, “I want to have you over so much I will even have a do-over just to get you here!” even though it is really a case of a relatively easy two-for-the-fuss-of-one for you.

Speaking of two for one, I somehow got to go to both of the lovely parties given by Ned and Donna. Not fair that they invited me to both? Hey, there’s got to be some perk to this whole Miss Mingle thing!

Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. Read her blog at MissMingle.com.

By Jeanne Martinet

I was on deadline for a project. I was stressed out. I was also out of food and coffee. With the clock ticking, I grabbed the first hat I could find and jammed it over my unwashed head, and pulled on a pair of old walking boots (with no socks—a look which I must say did not help matters since I was also wearing a mid-calf-length mu-mu). I had gone half a block when suddenly, there he was: an ex-boyfriend, coming right at me. I tried to hide (which in pedestrian-terms means looking the other way and walking fast), but it was too late. He had spotted me. I cringed inwardly as he greeted me by kissing my unwashed, unpowdered cheek. “Of all the sidewalks in all the neighborhoods in all of Manhattan, he walks onto mine,” I thought gloomily on the way home.

But of course, this kind of unexpected encounter happens all the time. It’s a part of Murphy’s Law—or rather, Finagle’s Law, which takes Murphy’s further: “Anything that can possibly go wrong will—at the worse possible moment.” If you absolutely do not want to run into your ex-boss, you absolutely will, and not only that, it will be with mustard on your chin and your fly unzipped. Slip out in your torn sweats for a pizza or a bagel, and there they are: the agent who turned down your play, the community board member you had a big fight with at the last meeting, the man you had a date with who you never called back. It’s no good trying to protest, “Darn, this is the one day I did not put any makeup on, and I run into you!” This is just like saying, “I really look better than this.” Who cares, or even believes you? Because you still look horrible right now, and apologizing for it will not erase the current image of you with blue ink on your face.

Suburbanites and small town-ers will tell you that it is worse for them, because everyone they know goes to the same stores. A friend of mine wailed recently, “You are so lucky to live in a big place like New York City! I want to be anonymous! In my town, I have to be on my toes every minute.” I tried to explain to her that in Manhattan, there is really no such thing as anonymity—only the illusion of anonymity. When you walk out onto the crowded streets, you may feel as if you have Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility pulled over you, as you make your way through the bustle. The idea that millions of people live here tricks you into thinking you can make it there and back unscathed by any unwanted social encounters, and then—whammo! Surprise attacks in the city can occur in a store, on the bus or on the subway, but most happen on the sidewalk. (My friend John keeps running into his old barber, who likes to stand outside his shop when he is not busy. The barber will greet him, “Hey, haven’t seen you lately,” with a critical look at John’s unkempt head. This kind of thing cannot happen in a place where people drive cars everywhere.) Also, you never know who might suddenly pop up in New York. People visit or move here all the time. If you live in Memphis, and your long lost boyfriend lives in Sonoma, you do not expect to run into him on the street, but it is possible in New York.

Can you pre-arm yourself somehow? Actors wear big hats and weird glasses so they won’t be recognized. You could try this incognito trick, but with the time it takes to create a disguise, you may as well just go ahead and put on a new shirt and some lipstick. The best thing to do is keep a good lookout as you make your foray out into the world. If you see the person first, you can look the other way and try to walk by quickly, or whip your cell phone out and walk fast while you are on it, with your head down. Maybe the other person will be so engrossed in texting or talking to someone else that she won’t notice you.

Of course, if you are really lucky, she will be on deadline, too—and look even worse than you.

_
Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

By Jeanne Martinet

I have to confess something: I have a serious soft spot for the flier guy.

All my friends think I am crazy—not to mention totally un-green. “Fliers cause major litter,” one told me. “They are killing trees!” exclaimed another. Most people feel that the flier guy is just a person who is in your way when you are trying to get somewhere. All this is certainly true. But the flier guy is also, in my opinion, a vibrant part of our urban landscape.

I’m not talking about the person who stops me on the street to convince me to vote for someone or donate money to a good cause. I’m talking about the guy who stands outside the eyeglass store on 96th Street handing out offers for discount glasses, or the guy on 103rd who is promoting 2-for-1 pizza night. Unlike an encounter with a “non-profiteer,” the exchange with the flier guy is quick and painless. You are not at all obligated to respond. He doesn’t really care whether or not you like what he is handing you; he is only asking that you help him do his job by accepting a piece of paper from him. Presumably, he is doing this for a low per-hour, or per-flier fee. When I accept a flier, it feels like an easy way to help someone who is struggling get ahead. Not that flier guy isn’t aware you are probably going to immediately throw it away. The exchange with the flier guy is like a game of hot potato in slow motion.

Many pedestrians will walk right by the flier guy, ignoring him as if he were an overly aggressive pigeon. Some people become “flier-swatters” and actually bat the paper away. I myself always try to make eye contact and smile at the guy as I take a flier. I will wait until I am about a block away before discarding it. I don’t want the trash can right on his “beat” to be filled; I feel it is kinder to have him believe that he is reaching people, that I am taking the time to at least glance at the paper before I toss it.

But even I don’t always love the flier guy. If I am very late for something he can be an annoyance; moreover, not all of them follow what I think of as proper Flier Guy Protocol. If the person is blocking the subway entrance, I will refuse the flier. (Sometimes I feel like saying, “You are not going to get anywhere standing here! People are trying to catch a train!”) The other big flier guy sin, in my book, is to aggressively thrust a flier at me when my hands are obviously full. (Am I supposed to take it with my teeth?) The most efficient flier guy makes eye contact, smiles, avoids getting in people’s way and aims for empty hands. And while flier guy styles vary from the polite offer to the theatrical brandish, there are some guys who are true artists and manage to get the thing into your hand before you even know what is happening. When the guy is doing his job well I will often have a fleeting impulse to stop and chat with him (“Where are you from? Do you do this freelance or are you a store employee? Do you hate this job?”) Maybe some day I will even hand something promotional of mine back to the flier guy: “Here, I’ll trade you!”

I realize that in a perfect world all commerce would be conducted without using paper. But to me the flier hand-out is part of the marvelous mayhem of New York City street life—one of the things that makes the city rich, complex and stimulating. New York has always been roiling with people selling things, yelling things and interacting in all kinds of ways. Sidewalk hawkers are part of the deal. Engaging with the flier guy helps make us participants connected to our surroundings rather than invisible beings floating anonymously along. And whether it’s a “Jesus Came From Outer Space” pamphlet, an announcement about a new karaoke club or just a smile of gratitude from a stranger, sometimes the flier guy provides you with something that can make your day just a little more interesting.
_
Jeanne Martinet, aka Miss Mingle, is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

By Jeanne Martinet

It was the Lincoln Plaza Cinema—and a film I had been dying to see. I had the perfect seat. I had the perfect movie companion. I had the perfect popcorn.

The movie started and suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that a man in the row in front of me had begun to move his arm up and down in time to the music. The motion was elegant and practiced. His other hand was also moving a little; he was silently conducting his own imaginary orchestra! I found it very distracting, as the rise and fall of his arms kept pulling my focus away from the movie.

At first I wondered if he could be delusional—if he somehow believed he was actually on stage. On the other hand he didn’t seem crazy. Was this an absent-minded act? Maybe he was a professional maestro who simply could not leave work behind. But as the pantomime performance continued, it became apparent that this was just a guy who was oblivious to people around him. And I also understood, as I watched his confident posture, that a large part of why he considered this conduct acceptable was because it was noiseless.

We are more apt to commit noiseless breaches of good behavior than noisy ones. Theatergoers who would never dream of failing to turn off their phone’s ringers think nothing of leaving the phone itself on, its glowing light plainly visible and potentially annoying to everyone around them. My pet peeve involves fellow audience members who freely play with their long hair, unaware of the fact that half the time it is flicking close to the faces of people behind them. Yet, who am I to complain? They paid for their seats, and more important, they are not making any noise.

Unless the offense is audible—gum cracking, loud talking, candy wrapper crackling—or we are physically touched (as when someone kicks the back of our chair), we tend to hesitate before daring to say anything. For one thing, we can’t be certain that it is bothering anyone except us. And we do not feel so clear about it being our inalienable right to complain. If an audience couple chooses to engage in enthusiastic entwining (whether they are smooching or merely leaning their heads together), thereby making it impossible to see, we still feel funny about tapping the lovebirds on the shoulder and saying, “Your kissing is ruining the show!” After all, we think, shouldn’t we be able to tune out a noiseless distraction like this?

As New Yorkers, we are trained to block things out. With constant stimulation all around us, we can’t possibly process it all. If we let every annoying thing get to us, we’d be basket cases. So we learn to have boundaries. Therefore, when we do find ourselves distracted by something relatively trivial, like a guy waving his hands in a movie theater, we are conflicted. “Jeez, it’s not that bad,” we think. “The guy’s not making any noise, after all. I should be able to concentrate on the movie.”

The truth is that many people would not have even been bothered by my conductor. Just as many do not get incensed by the cell phone lights—often because they have been guilty of similar infractions themselves. A friend of mine recently told me she saw someone scratching the back of the person seated right in front of her—with a wooden back scratcher.

“Did you call him on it?” I wanted to know. “Nah,” she told me. “My husband bites his nails in the movies; who am I to throw stones?”

But back in Theater 6 at Lincoln Plaza, I decided I was going to throw a stone. Trivial or not, this man’s faux-conducting was ruining the film for me. And I just knew it had to be driving others nearby crazy. But I would have to be the one to say something.

I took a deep breath and leaned forward, preparing to projectile-whisper, “Excuse me but your conducting is distracting me,” when just then the woman sitting next to him—who seemed used to this sort of corrective behavior—captured both his hands in hers and brought them forcibly down to his lap. He looked at her and smiled sheepishly.

Several people applauded. Which made everything even more perfect.
_
Jeanne Martinet is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.

I was biking along the crowded Hudson River Greenway, all my focus on avoiding pedestrians, roller-bladers and darting toddlers, when suddenly two guys whipped by me on their bikes (passing on the right, no less) at super high speed. Annoyed at their recklessness, I was deciding exactly what withering thing to yell at them when I overhead one saying to the other, “…the real problem with our education system, the one no one ever talks about, is…” and then they were gone. My irritation was instantly replaced with a burning desire to hear what the guy had been about to say. I wanted to catch up to them, but there was no hope of that. Darn! What about the education system? Was it something I didn’t know about? Wait up!

One of the most wonderful things about New York City is that, because we are almost always within earshot of someone else, we have unlimited opportunities to listen in on the conversations going on around us. It’s as if New York were one giant cocktail party and we are all of us guests (or audience members at an avant-garde play, held on a very large stage). And this may sound New York-centric, but people here tend to be smarter, more talented, more culturally-diverse and more engaged in what goes on around them than they are in other places, so our conversations tend to be more interesting—and often more unguarded.

You can overhear personal secrets, philosophical and psychological discussions, juicy arguments, helpful lifestyle tips, political theory, news of the day, celebrity gossip. Who needs Twitter when you are on the sidewalks of New York? And it’s almost better that you usually never get the whole conversation, but only a snippet. Sometimes the few words you overhear can spur on a conversation between you and whomever you are with. You can have fun trying to figure out exactly what was being discussed, or try to guess what would have been said next. Or, if you happen to overhear two sides of a debate, you can talk about who you think is right. Overhead dialogue from a stranger can change the timbre of your whole day.

Is this eavesdropping? When you overhear something particularly intimate (“I did not even use protection last night”), it can feel like eavesdropping, yet it’s really accidental. However, if you decide to follow strangers into a store where you have no business, solely for the purpose of listening to the story a woman is telling about her messy divorce, you may have crossed the line into stalker territory (a conversation stalker!). A conversation stalker may not be as bad as the regular kind of stalker, but there is definitely acceptable and unacceptable urban eavesdropping.

Occasionally you find yourself so drawn to a stranger’s conversation—and so sure you have something of value to contribute—that you may want to try to join in. This must be done carefully, of course. Sometimes New Yorkers don’t respond well when their illusion of privacy is shattered. If you are on a bus or train, or standing together in a line, you can often politely insert a pertinent comment at just the right juncture. But you should be respectful of boundaries and never expect to become a full-fledged participant in the conversation.

Last night I was walking in Chelsea with a friend, holding forth in a completely fantastic manner about a (non-existent) movie deal for a book of mine. I had had a glass of wine or two, which is probably why I was saying, “I just won’t let them do the movie unless I get to write the screenplay,” in such a grandiose tone. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the intrigued quick glance of a passerby, who slowed as I passed. Did I see a turn of her head? Suddenly I realized that my own overheard remark was serving as someone else’s delicious tidbit, if only for a New York minute.

—
Jeanne Martinet lives on the Upper West Side and is the author of seven books on social interaction. Her latest book is a novel, Etiquette for the End of the World. You can contact her at JeanneMartinet.com.