A few years ago, I was on one of my flying visits back home to the UK (I’ve been expat-ing in the Middle East for a while, and a “supply run” was needed at intervals). A distant relative spotted me at a family gathering. We exchanged pleasantries and he parted with the knee-jerk comment, “you must come round before you fly back”. I thanked him for the invitation but politely reminded him that as I was only in the country for a couple of days I wouldn’t have time.
From his expression he seemed taken aback; not offended, just a little lost. It seems I had unnecessarily deviated from the normal path, which was to simply bat back my own conversational patellar reflex, to whit: “sure thing” (even though it was the precise opposite) or “definitely, I’ll try to” (when I had absolutely no intention of trying). It was as if I had misheard that what he had actually said was “I am asking you out of courtesy and you’re meant to just faux-accept out of similar courtesy and then our exchange is done”.
It’s similar when work colleagues greet me with “how are you?”. I try to give an authentic reply, something that approximates to the truth. But this only ends up triggering a few more exchanges to bring the interaction to its inevitable cul-de-sac, and I remember quickly that they don’t actually care too much how I am, it was just a way of acknowledging me, and that’s okay because I don’t really care that they don’t really care, and all we’ve done is waste a few moments. The next time I just default to the standard-issue “fine” or “good” or “not bad”.
I used to refer to these types of questions or remarks, incorrectly, as platitudes. They’re not platitudes, by definition, just inauthentic remarks or questions: “inauthentitudes” if you will (© The Midlife Log).
Leaving aside acquaintances and co-workers, what of retail assistants and authenticity in a sales interaction? Whenever I arrive at one of the car rental companies at London Heathrow to pick up my pre-booked vehicle, the sales staff are always remarkably chipper and clearly have a corporate-drilled policy of engaging the customer in a lot of upbeat patter. Initially I thought it was just the one-off assistant showing genuine interest, but no, the script is always cookie-cutter:
[Ask where the customer has flown in from today and how their flight was].
[Make some remark about the place the customer has flown from.]
[Some remark about the weather there compared to weather here is a good one, or some other innocuous comment.]
[Avoid politics and religion.]
I usually don’t mind their attempts to conversationally caffeinate me awake from my jet lagged stupor (after all, I’m about to drive away one of their cars). Also, I probably don’t mind because I can’t hear them very well anyway, when my ears haven’t quite unblocked yet.
A retail sales assistant asking how you are is the ultimate inauthentitude, although perfectly innocent of course. It’s a question that no one expects or wants a real answer to. I never ask because, and I know this sounds dreadfully self-important, I don’t want to disrespect the other person with an inauthentic question. In fact, thinking about it, I do struggle with that type of off-the-shelf, auto pilot, factory-line interaction in various scenarios. Even when I’m calling someone to offer condolences on a death, I forego the easy platitude and instead stumble around searching for something meaningful to impart that doesn’t sound like the banal dirge of a box being ticked.
Recently though, I got more than I bargained for, literally. I am in a mall looking to buy a small backpack to carry a journal and a flask of drink in when I go for my evening walks, Henry David Thoreau-like. I ask a security guard for directions to a newly opened luggage store. I find it in a refurbished wing of the mall where no other unit is open. It sits there isolated in a row of hoarding frontages.
I walk in and I am the only customer there, matching the number of sales assistants. He approaches me from back of the store, looking pleased and slightly surprised to have some human interaction. I tell him I’m looking for a small backpack (I don’t tell him the kind of size that a young teenage girl might wear because she has too much stuff to put in her pockets but not enough to fill a proper backpack). He helps me pick one out, and I follow him to the back of the store to pay. We exchange some pleasantries and he rings up the item. Then I remark rather innocently that it’s an odd part of the mall to open the store in, given that nothing else in this area looks anywhere close to being ready yet.
Immediately he agrees and expresses regret at the decision. He tells me that there’s no back up sales assistant there (presumably because the low footfall doesn’t warrant more than one person manning the shop). And then, without explanation and without invitation, he confides in the most matter of fact way you could imagine: “I can’t take a toilet break so I have to hold it in, and I got a UTA”.
My instinctive reaction would be to correct him and say “you mean UTI” but I don’t, as I’m still trying to process why he has seen fit to share this with me in the first place. I mean, he didn’t even suggest I sign a NDA before he revealed his medical history. Perhaps some kind of Chatham House Rule applies between us that I didn’t know about. Perhaps that means I can and should empathise with him and tell him about having a rash in my nether regions caused by excessive walking (I don’t have one, but given the amount of squirming I’m starting to do on the spot, I’m not far off getting one).
No, I just remain quiet. Authenticity is rapidly losing its appeal in this conversation. How I long for the simple pleasures of “how are you?”, “I’m fine”.
I struggle to exit the conversation because there are not enough pauses to make my escape. The questions keep coming. I slowly edge back up the store towards the entrance and he follows me, still talking. After various exchanges including whether I’ve been vaccinated for Covid and the disappointments of travel restrictions to various countries (he’s from India), I realise that my eating window, before I start my next intermittent fast, is closing. I signal this to him by suddenly looking at my watch, raising my eyebrows, and telling him that I’m going to go and grab some food.
I exit the store and head in the direction of the food court (instinctively making a quick pitstop at the toilets on the way).
Later on that evening, the phrase “can holding in your urine cause a UTI” will randomly join my otherwise slightly mundane Google search history (a bit like a queue of cardigan-ed, middle-aged readers at a book signing, suddenly being joined by a man dressed in a leather gimp outfit).
And in case you’re wondering, I’ll save you the trouble – yes it can.