Feeling Lift Out

It's a traveling cone of silence. In fact there seems to be a certain code of silence applied to frequenting a lift, like some kind of universal law or 10th commandment. Thou shalt not speak in lift.
How fabulous we have become at ignoring humans approximately 17 centimetres away, almost to the point of denying their existence. And in a way, we deny our own. With the sudden spatial awareness in a lift, we recede into our invisible armour. If there are several lift traveling strangers it is not so bad. The more the better, as it it is far easier to blend into the human camouflage with  joyous anonymity.

BUT, if you find yourself in a lift with just one other person, you are vulnerable and exposed like a horrible 'undies' dream. And so are they. Yes, that cologne masking BO waft is drifting from them. Or is it BO masking cologne? Not sure, you'd think they'd cancel each other out. With your senses heightened in confined spaces you note the sound of their breathing. As long as you cannot feel their breath on the back of your neck, you're ok. Generally this shouldn't happen since each body ends up in far corners of the lift, like opponents in a boxing ring. Boxers make eye contact though, that's part of the psych game. This is a definite 'no' in the traveling cone of silence. Since both of you politely pretend the other does not exist, eye contact cannot be established. It's quite primal, really. So what do we do, we look up at the passing floor numbers, as though it's the most fascinating thing we've ever seen in our lives. We're transfixed like zombies, hypnotised by numbers, too afraid of accidental sideways glances.
Then 'DING,' immediate relief, awkward tension laxative effect. We exit and carry on like it was a completely normal experience.

Such is the business/workplace lift scenario. There are many different lifts though. The shopping centre lift experience is completely different, not cones of silence, but cramped cubes of gross. They're like tins of obnoxious sardines with prams and skateboards. You cannot eavesdrop in a shopping centre lift, people rudely involve you in their conversations. You are subject to listen, as you are to the sound of a cheap lawn mower at 7am on a Saturday morning. And more often than not, I'd choose lawn mower conversation. So I tune into my inner conversation.

"Ok, pram wheel in my shin, like through the bone.. Ah, hurry up. Are we still on level 1? Why aren't we moving. That kid has pressed the button like 17 times, like it's going to get us there faster. Maybe it's morse code, what's he trying to say? Perhaps we'll be transported through time. Wait, ok, level 2. C'mon people, get out, get in. Shit, whose holding the doors for the tortoise with the trolley. Totes should've taken the stairs. I could have scaled the building by now. Ok, level 3, woohoo. Dodge the baby vomit and we're through"

There is actually one last lift type to mention, 'the pre 90s lift'. This one is for all the risk takers out there, the adrenaline junkies. "Line up to experience a ride like no other, full of death drops, haunted creaks, and exhilarating sudden stops in mid air." Yep, it's a buzz, you guys. The is a 70s lift in my apartment block. It makes me feel alive. I should charge admission since that is probably the only way I can afford my Body Corporate fees this month. Note to self; side business project, Bungee rectangle adventures.

dogs x