Elevator banter

One concept I've quickly learned to detest in the real world is small talk. I've never liked it, but in the past it was far easier to avoid. In high school and college, if an adult tried to engage you in a bullshit conversation you could just pretend you were an immigrant or wasted, or both. It's exceedingly more difficult to avoid in corporate America.

Why do we feel the need to make small talk? No one at any given office anywhere actually has anything to talk about with each other. I don't give a shit that you tended to your garden in your palatial Westchester abode, or that little Timmy scored two goals and then vomited on your new PT Cruiser's upholstery.

Fortunately if you're at your desk you can pretend to listen to your annoying co-workers while checking up on your favorite blogs. But there's no greater evidence of the inanity of small talk then when you're in the elevator. Especially when the mercury drops below freezing for the first time since last year. You'd think no one's ever been cold before.

"So, how you holding up in this weather?"
"Pretty frigid out there."
"Guess I won't be trimming any hedges this weekend, no sir."

At this point you've become blind because your eyes rolled straight through the top of your head and are doing time on the ceiling of the elevator.

"Seems you've got some blood gushing out of your ocular cavities there, how's that working out for you?"

You contemplate various methods of shattering your ear drums but sadly come to the conclusion that even the destruction of 2/5 of your senses still won't stop little Timmy from playing soccer again that weekend, and every weekend until he quits in high school, starts smoking weed, impregnates his girlfriend after the prom and flunks out of college, but still gets hooked up with a job where he gets to deal with the same daily nonsense you did.