By Jeanne Martinet

Let’s face it. When someone is serving up exceptionally juicy gossip—whether it’s hitherto-uncovered dirt on a person who has been mean to you, an unsavory secret about an unscrupulous business competitor or a scandal about a celebrity—joining in can be a delicious temptation. But the urge to disparage can be even more mundane: Sometimes it’s only that a good friend is driving you crazy, and you happen to be with a mutual friend or friends who you know will understand exactly what you mean if you decide to complain about it.

I witnessed this phenomenon not too long ago; though to be absolutely truthful, I was not an innocent bystander, but a participant. I was in Central Park with a group of friends, waiting in line for tickets to Sondheim’s Into the Woods. These “Shakespeare in the Park” waits can take hours, and depending on where you are in the line, can be less than comfortable. There is definitely a lot of time for chatting. We went from politics to our personal lives, and eventually someone brought up the subject of the characteristically absent M., a friend who was always delighted to get a ticket to the theater from one of us, but would never be caught waiting in line herself, even though she worked at home and had as free a schedule as any of us.

“She’s been like that since we were in high school,” said Catherine. “I really love her, don’t get me wrong, but she has an unmatched sense of entitlement.”

“You don’t have to tell me about her sense of entitlement!” said Joanna, tossing her long hair back over her shoulders. “Who do you think is the only person who never hosts dinner parties, even though I’ve had her to three at my house already this year?”

The conversation went on like this for a while (I’m embarrassed to say), the bad-mouthing gaining momentum, and was punctuated by wicked jokes and guilty laughter. It was 90 degrees in the shade. We were hot and fussy, and we were finding great solace in our common complaining.

Suddenly my friend Josh, who had been both horizontal and silent the whole time that this M.-bashing was going on, lifted his head off the blanket. “Go ahead, girls, feed the tiger!” he said, like some kind of hipster King Solomon. “Feed the tiger.” Then he leaned back and closed his eyes again.

I was taken aback. At first I had no idea what he meant. The only time I had ever heard that expression was in the context of alcoholism; “feeding the tiger” meant gravitating toward unhealthy behaviors that could lead to relapse.

But then all at once, with an inner flush of shame, I got it. What Josh was saying was that by harping in this unchecked, negative way, we were all causing our negative feelings to grow and flourish. As comforting as it may feel in the moment to bitch together, what we were doing was to ensure that whatever flaws M. might actually have would now be intensified, more pronounced in our minds. Our negativity was like a beast growing larger every minute. We were in essence “feeding” it. Before you knew it, we would be blaming the poor absent M. for world hunger and global warming.

As everyone knows, “accentuating the positive” is easier said than done. It can be a lifelong challenge. It’s so very tempting to give in to inner fears and frustration; it’s fun to be snarky! Snarkiness gives you an immediate, if fleeting, sense of superiority. It is, in fact, addictive, like a drug. Negativity is very seductive—just like the proverbial hungry tiger. The tiger needs food to survive. She purrs when you feed her. But what happens when the tiger gets stronger? She will kill you and eat you. You will get sucked into her malcontent. The moral: Feed the negative, and it will eventually devour you.

After Josh’s pronouncement and my subsequent epiphany, I managed to resist joining the others in their “playful” derision of M. I unwrapped a sandwich, and fed my stomach instead.

Note: No tigers were harmed during the writing of this piece.

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

Readers may remember how often I have expounded on the social benefits of living in this crowded, vibrant, melting (and mingling) pot of a city—where the possibility of conversations with strangers is always right at the tip of your ears, and even if you are too shy to talk to strangers, you can overhear the most interesting things and later serve them up as conversational tidbits to your friends and acquaintances.

But there is, of course, always the other side of the urban “proximity” coin; there are often interactions you really wish you didn’t have to witness, ones you wish you could block out. Loud, boring conversations between salesmen about numbers or statistics. Ugly relationship arguments. Parents being mean to their toddlers. People spouting racist or sexist opinions.

Or, as I experienced recently: rude customers abusing the people who are waiting on them.

In New York restaurants, it’s extremely difficult to ignore your fellow diners. Tables are often so close together you may as well be eating at the same table. It was for this reason that, one night last month, it became extremely hard to ignore the demanding, absolutely pissy diners sitting immediately to my left.

The irony was that, as my friend and I were settling into our seats, we were talking about how wonderful this particular restaurant was, and at almost that exact moment we became aware of a man at the next table berating the waitress.

“Miss, I have to tell you,” said the man, who had a pointy nose and wispy hair that pouffed out on top, “this is not medium-rare, this is medium. Take it away and bring me one that is prepared correctly.” And a little while later: “Waitress, please bring me another set of silverware; these are not clean. Also, I need some more bread, and another drink. And can you tell the bartender to use Tanqueray this time, like I asked? Whatever this was, it wasn’t Tanqueray. Don’t think I can’t tell the difference!”

The other man at this table was also fairly demanding, though at least he was polite. “Sorry, but can I have some more parmesan?” “Excuse me, I seemed to have dropped my napkin, can I have another?” “May I have some extra dressing?” It was something every few minutes.

The poor waitress was running back and forth to their table as if she were running a relay race and she was the whole team. We tried to ignore the unpleasantness. With all my powers of concentration, I looked over at my dinner companion, trying to block out the petty drama beside us, so we could enjoy our dinner (and each other) instead of focusing on the complainers beside us. But once we had become aware of them, it was hard not to listen. (How about a little negative energy with that roast duck?) Our attempts at tuning them out were to no avail.

Gradually, in order to try to compensate for the rude neighbors, we began to over-compliment our waitress.

“Thank you so much,” I found myself gushing to her. “This risotto is the best I’ve ever had.”

“I’m going to come back to this wonderful place all the time,” my friend chirped in.

Of course, we were aware that the rude people next to us could overhear us as easily as we could overhear them. And I believe it made them meaner!

Hence the battle between praise and complaints began, much akin to the proverbial battle of good and evil. We could tell the waitress was grateful to us; we were the heavenly balm to the hellish job she had to endure three feet away from us.

In truth, at a certain point during the meal I really wanted my water glass refilled, but I felt so bad for the waitress that I could not bear to ask for this. Nevertheless we—quietly, subtly—began to get better service than the complainers, only because we were so comparatively nice. And so, this friendly, unspoken relationship with the waitress eventually began to substitute for the communion my friend and I weren’t having with each other. It became a different kind of social night, one where we had adopted a put-upon waitress. We felt that part of the reason we had come to this restaurant was to help her get through the night.

I’ve heard stories about what chefs do in the kitchen to the food of “problem” customers. One thing is for sure: I would not have wanted to eat from the plates of the two persnickety gentlemen sitting beside us.

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

It’s the kind of thing that happens to all of us now and then.

Just the other day, I was having lunch with a somewhat imposing young film student to talk about the possibility of his doing a YouTube video to promote my novel. He was both handsome and British, which is a combination that tends to unnerve me. He was describing a particular kind of film montage technique and I was trying hard to follow him.

“You know what I mean,” he was saying, “It’s what ______ often did at the beginning of all his early films.” The student dropped the name of a director who, I could tell from the confident tone of the student’s voice, I was supposed to know. So I murmured “Uh-huh,” though I had no idea at all who this director was.

This kind of bluffing can be risky, even though in many instances failing to confess one’s ignorance will cause you no trouble—the reference is touched upon briefly, the conversation goes on to something else and no one is the wiser. However, in this case, we stayed on the subject of said director for some time. The result? I felt lost, with a growing panic inside even as I smiled and nodded. And of course it is much worse to confess after five minutes has passed. Every second you let the pretense go on, the more ridiculous you feel when you have to admit, “Actually, I don’t know what you are talking about.” I was a prisoner—a prisoner of my lie.

There are many reasons why pretending you know something you don’t is a bad idea. The two most important of these are: 1) You are no longer a full participant in the conversation, because you are, to a certain extent, faking it. The quality of the conversation is affected, especially as you are now spending some of your energy trying not to get caught. And 2) You may actually get caught, when your conversational partner suddenly asks you something specific about the subject at hand. (“Which is your favorite of his films?”) And getting caught pretending to know about a book, a director, a town in Italy, a trendy restaurant or a politician can be much more embarrassing than acknowledging your ignorance in the first place.

It’s better to come clean. For one thing, if you admit your ignorance, the other person gets the pleasure of enlightening you. Most people like to teach people things; it makes them feel slightly superior. You are also indicating to the other person that you are actually listening to every word he is saying, that you are committed to having a meaningful conversation, not one where you just skate through. You are willing to sacrifice your ego for the benefit of the exchange.

After all, whatever the reason that you are having this conversation—with the possible exception of a job interview—it will be more successful if you are connecting as honestly and as fully as possible. And you can’t really do that if you are only partly aware of what the other person is trying to say. If the other person is describing how a particular author made her feel when she was young and you only pretend to know the author in question, you are not going to be able to empathize as much as you should.

Some people in this situation will interject something like, “Wait—have I seen her/him/it in the news recently?” in the hope of getting enough additional information that it will either jog their memory or they won’t really need to know more to continue the conversation. Others will just change the subject as soon as they can.

But ultimately, covering up takes too much energy and confessing is the best way to become better informed. After your initial embarrassment, you will feel relieved at not having to pretend. The other person may even respect you more for admitting you don’t know what they are talking about.

At lunch with the film student, I finally steeled myself, looked right into his handsome face and said, “To tell you the truth, I actually don’t know that director. I don’t know why I said I did, actually.” (I tend to use the word “actually” a lot when I am with Brits.)
“Oh, he’s fairly obscure,” he responded with a reassuring smile. And then he went on to describe exactly the kind of opening montage he meant when he brought the director up.

I vowed right then and there to try never to fake it again. There is too much to learn and too little to lose.

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

Unleashing our inner bitchy selves

I was on my way out of St. John the Divine, on 112th Street, after a Saturday night concert when I heard a woman behind me say in a loud, distinctly annoyed tone of voice, “But I don’t understand; why don’t they allow dogs in here?”

At first I was taken aback. For heaven’s sake, how ridiculous, I thought. Dogs in a cathedral? With the barking, the peeing, the panting—maybe even the biting? What kind of an animal fanatic was this woman, anyway? The concert we were coming from had featured solo harp music, during which even bodies shifting in their seats made too much noise; I could only imagine what a dog whimpering away would have been like.

In the interest of full disclosure, I am a cat owner. Cat owners and dog owners are a bit like the Jets and the Sharks: In general, dog owners think cats are cold, finicky, standoffish animals; conversely, cat owners are enormously bewildered that anyone would intentionally structure his life so he would be regularly picking up his pet’s poop in the rain at 6 a.m.

However, on my way home, I started thinking about Paris and the way people there are allowed to take their beloved pooches to restaurants and cafes. Who can argue with the super-civilized behavior of the French? After all, dogs are loyal companions, and it would make a big difference to a lot of people if their owners could take them with them more often. Under New York City’s health code, pets are not allowed inside restaurants unless they are service animals, even though some restaurants allow it anyway. But why not? Is the toting of small dogs in carriers really that much different than bringing babies in strollers? Is my health really endangered by the close proximity of a lap dog?

By the time I got to my apartment, I was feeling some solidarity with the complaining stranger. After all, this kind of “uppity” behavior is one of the things I love about New York City. Where else could anyone be totally incensed that her Cairn terrier was not allowed to enjoy Bach’s Fugue in D Minor at a famous Episcopal cathedral? The brashness, the feeling of freedom and entitlement and desire for progress that Americans are traditionally known for is intensified in New York.

In D.C., Boston, London—indeed, in most other Western cities—people will line up in an orderly fashion at the train station. In New York, they tend to rush the gate. It’s not a myth; we really are pushier here. I may have been brought up by mild-mannered parents, but after 20-plus years of living in New York I find myself challenging the rules, testing the boundaries, pushing the envelope much more than if I had lived somewhere else—though I always try to smile when I find myself saying something like, “That doesn’t work for me; is there any way you can make an exception?”

New Yorkers are the best in the world at moving the line just a little farther than where it started. If a rule does not make sense, we challenge it. This keeps things stirred up, but also engenders progress. We are always demanding our rights (or what we see as our rights), always wanting more, never satisfied with the status quo—Why can’t I use my mobile device everywhere I want? Why can’t I eat my dinner on the subway? Why can’t I bring my kid to this adults-only thing? Why can’t I take flash photos of this museum exhibit? Why can’t I buy exotic fruits from Japan all year round? Why can’t I go topless in public? Why can’t I bring my dog to the harp concert?
Dogs might not be able to get into St. John the Divine, but what they can do in New York is get married. What was reportedly the most expensive dog wedding in history was held just a few weeks ago at the Jumeirah Essex House Hotel on Central Park South. It cost $158,187.26—though, alas, it was not a church wedding.

Keep on pushing, New Yorkers. If you don’t, who will?

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

“Who are you, Gidget?” I asked in amazement. “Who finds romance at the beach in real life?”

But then I thought about it. The truth is, if you can get past the whole “I look horrible in a bathing suit” feeling—and can bring yourself to unplug from your iPhone for long enough—the beach is a perfect place to mingle. People at the beach are already relaxed and in pleasure-seeking mode, not to mention that everyone is semiclothed.

And so, inspired by my friend Elizabeth and with a nod to Gidget, here are some of Miss Mingle’s hottest tips for those who want to lend Cupid a helping hand this summer:

Location, location, location: Choose a beach where there are likely to be other single people. Also, place your towel and chair in a crowded section of the beach—near the surf line—rather than in a more secluded spot. This is like positioning yourself near the food table at a party—where the action is, rather than against an out-of-the-way wall.

Hunt the Stray: People who are by themselves are easier to approach than groups, especially straight men; something dreadful happens to straight men when they are male bonding. And if you should notice that great guy before you have committed to a spot, try to arrange your towel or chair so he is between you and the ocean. That way, you can not only check him out thoroughly, you can also pass him on your way to and from frequent dips. After a while, you will seem like old friends; your neighborly smile can extend to comments like “The water is so cold!” and “It’s heaven in there.”

Eavesdropping: This the most common beach pick-up technique, also known as the “Fade-in.” Listen carefully to what’s being said by two or more strangers and—at an appropriate moment—make a pertinent remark, as if you had been there all along. Often it is the lone man who will insinuate himself into women’s conversation, so girls, if you think he’s listening, be sure to allow him an opening.

The Art of Observation: This is the perfect tactic if you are alone and so is she. Making a nonpersonal comment is safe and unobtrusive. Dogs, kids, things in the sky and things in the water make perfect subjects for casual conversation. “Excuse me, but does that look like a shark out there?” is always certain to get her attention.

Surf or Turf?: When asked whether they are more likely to strike up a conversation with a stranger in the water or out, most women will choose dry land and men water. Women say they feel they look better on their towels or in their chairs, with their hair and suits dry. I find this surprising, since I myself feel much more confident with the lower half of my body submerged. But hey, that’s just me.

I find water conversation preferable, because the common activity of swimming creates a sense of camaraderie. After all, you’re in there together. More important, it is much easier to abort the conversation when you are in the water—just ride a wave or quietly sink.

If you are feeling adventurous—remember, Gidget wasn’t above a few tricks, and she always got her man—try:

The Exhibitionist: Build a large sand castle or a sand sculpture and see who comes to watch. Don’t worry if you attract children; there are plenty of divorcees out there.

Old-fashioned Girl: Ask him to help you with your beach umbrella or a bottle that won’t open.

The Flatterer: Approach her with “OK, I know I’ve seen you on TV.” Or tap him gently on the shoulder and say, “Excuse me, would you mind keeping half an eye on me while I am in the water? You look like a strong swimmer.”

Risqué Business: Ask him or her to apply sunscreen to your back.

The Accidental Tourist: If you should be lucky enough to be knocked by a boogie board into an attractive person’s waiting arms or tumbled together in a crashing wave, quip “We’ve simply got to stop meeting like this!” or “I think I just fell for you.” Or even “In some countries, we’d have to get married now.”

OK, I’ll see you out there. I’ll be the one packing the extra Coppertone.

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.

Like most single people, I socialize a lot with couples. Most of my friends are in couples. Sometimes we go to the theater or a movie, but often it’s just good conversation over dinner. What I have learned is that the potential problem inherent in single-to-couple socializing is not the uneven number of people, nor is it being the only single person there; it’s being the single person in a threesome. Almost every single person you talk to will tell you that being a fifth wheel (or better yet, a seventh or ninth wheel) is infinitely better than being a third wheel. Three is a tricky number.

The terms “fifth wheel” and “third wheel” come from the fact that four-wheeled carriages used to carry an extra wheel (or that two-wheeled carts might carry a third). Obviously the spare wheel was not necessary to make the conveyance go. Ergo, it connotes something that serves no useful purpose.

However, the truth is that being a third wheel is not as much about being unnecessary or unwanted as it is about causing instability. A shopping cart with only three wheels can be wonky or lopsided, just as threesomes in social life are potentially unwieldy. Three friends together is always more complicated than two or four. With three people, the psychological balance is always shifting—however slightly—between one pair and another.

Unfortunately, the older I get, the more I seem to be going out with only one couple at a time. These can make for lovely, intimate evenings, except when something like this happens:

Let’s say I am in the middle of dinner with Jennifer and Rick. We are talking about modern technology and its effect on the human brain. Everything is going along quite nicely, until Jennifer suddenly says, “Hey, listen. You can help Rick and me solve a dispute we are having.” (Right here is where, if there were alarms hooked up to our social lives, the flashing lights and bells would go off.)

Jennifer continues: “I feel our daughter should not have a cell phone until she is 14, but many of her friends have them now, at age 11, and Rick thinks she needs one, especially being in New York City. What do you think? Will you please tell Rick he’s out of his mind?” Uh-oh. Trouble. Trouble in the shape of a big, fat triangle.

Triangulation is the process whereby a person who has an issue with someone else uses a third person to validate her feelings. This is more commonly known as Getting Sucked Into a Fight. In extreme situations, triangulation can make you feel as if you are trapped in a scene from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

But it doesn’t always manifest as an actual argument; it can be more passive than that, such as when a husband flirts with you in front of his wife or a wife makes cutting remarks about her husband in front of you.

Sometimes it’s the third wheel herself who is responsible for pushing the evening onto the third rail. She can inadvertently reveal a secret one person has told her to “put in the vault.” Or she can bring up sore subjects or show markedly more interest in one person’s anecdotes than the other’s.

But one thing is certain: When you are asked point blank to side with one person against the other, no good can come of it. At the first sign of this kind of triangulation, you should proceed with extreme caution. Change the subject or, if you can, leave the table to go to the restroom, feed the meter or make a call.

If you are not able to sidestep the landmine, pretend to mediate. Listen carefully to both sides, then claim you are unable to decide on the matter. Other triangulation diffusers? Try “Don’t ask me—I’m the proverbial disinterested third party” or “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me.” Or even “Look they have marriage counselors for this!”

To the Jennifer/Rick debate above, I might smile and say, “I make enough bad decisions about my own life. Please don’t ask me to make bad decisions for yours.”

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.

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 urban cloak of invisibility

by Jeanne Martinet

He came out of nowhere.

There I was getting my hair cut, absorbed in the blissful experience of being pampered and beautified, when suddenly I noticed a tall, chiseled man in the mirror right over my head. Hello? But he wasn’t looking at me, he was scrutinizing himself, and he was talking to my stylist.

“So, Brigitta…” The stranger smoothed his almost nonexistent hair (which looked like a crew cut that could hardly be cut further) back above his right ear. With his head cocked, he continued to study himself in the mirror. “Do you think I’ll be ready to come back next week?” he said. “I do want the top to be—I want to have enough for you to work with.” Who the hell is this guy? Do salons need bouncers now?

“Ah, sure,” Brigitta replied in her elegant Latvian accent, “You will probably be ready, I think.” She paused in mid-air over my head while she gave him an obligatory scan. One of her hands held the scissors and the other the comb.
I gaped at the man. “Hey! I’m sitting right here!” I wanted to yell. He was still gazing at himself in my mirror, his face about two feet above mine, and he was turning his head this way and that, touching his hair. Brigitta started snipping away at me again, trying to ignore him. He was obviously a regular customer, so she could not very easily tell him to leave.

“But you see this here…” he said, and he brushed his hand over the top of his bristly head and smiled devilishly at himself. I looked pointedly up at him, my eyebrows raised as far as they would go, in what I hoped was questioning disdain. At last his eyes met mine, and I detected a faint hint of embarrassment. “I’ll come back,” he said quickly.

After he left, Brigitte apologized and said the front desk should have waylaid the man. But I couldn’t help wondering: What was it that made me invisible? Until I finally got his attention, I was just an object, like the chair. I do not believe he was acting primarily out of a sense of entitlement, like someone who butts in front of you because they believe their business is more urgent than yours. It was simply that he was oblivious.

Obliviousness is not uncommon in urban life. We’ve all had the experience of waiting for a cab when someone steps right in front of us and grabs it. But the truth is, most of these taxi thieves are not thinking, “If I move quickly, I can get that cab first.” They really do not notice the other people waiting.

As New Yorkers we constantly need to cut out noise and stimuli or go crazy, so we develop tunnel vision, and everything nonessential tends to recede into the background—including, sometimes, other people.

Sometimes we can’t see others even when we really want to. Recently I heard about a friend and his wife who were both trying to meet up on 42nd Street. They were walking in opposite directions toward each other, on the same side of the street, yet they walked right past each other without realizing it. The crowded city itself affects awareness.

But certainly there are situations in which we are more prone to becoming invisible. When we hand our bodies over to be worked on—primped, trimmed, massaged, whatever—there is a sort of disappearing that happens, since we become almost entirely passive. We become a thing upon which something is being done.

Isn’t this why manicurists talk to each other while they are doing your nails? And (ever more increasingly, it seems) why checkout clerks talk to each other while they are checking you out? You, the customer, are not real. You are a shadow, a blur going by.

Of course, I could (as is my wont) blame the salon incident on the insensitivity of our technology-saturated society—on the theory that everyone is so insular that others seem just a part of each person’s own reflection in the mirror. But I suspect it might be simpler: The guy was a classic narcissist.

Certainly, while my Narcissus was obsessing over his hair, his reflection and mine merged in at least one way. Whether it was because Brigitta was distracted by his interruption or she was influenced by looking at his cropped head, she ended up clipping away much longer on me than necessary.

So now, thanks to this short-haired interloper, I have much shorter hair than I wanted. And, funnily enough, invisibility no longer seems such a bad idea.

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.

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.