Lift Etiquette

There are certain things in life that nobody ever actually teaches you, yet somehow we all know the rules.

Take lifts.

At no point during my schooling do I remember a lesson on lift etiquette. There was no worksheet. No practical assessment. Nobody stood at the front of the classroom and said, “Right, children. Today we’re going to learn what to do when you enter a small moving box with strangers.”

Yet somehow, regardless of where you are in the world, we all seem to know exactly what is expected of us.

You approach the lift and press the button.

You wait.

The doors open, you step inside, and immediately turn around to face the doors you just walked through. You press your floor, take your position, and prepare for silence.

You may look at the floor. You may look at your phone. Most commonly, you stare intently at the little illuminated numbers above the door as though this is your first ever lift journey and you are genuinely fascinated by what might happen next.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

There is apparently no other acceptable direction to look.

Then comes the bing! and everyone briefly springs back to life.

“Oh, this is me.” “Excuse me.” “Sorry.” You shuffle past the other passengers, step through the doors and, just like that, you are released back into society and allowed to speak again.

Nobody taught us this. We just know.

There is, however, one position in a lift that comes with considerably more responsibility than the others.

Next to the buttons.

Nobody really wants to stand there because the moment you do, you have inadvertently accepted the role of Lift Captain.

You are now responsible for floors, door management and the safe passage of any late-arriving passengers.

You didn’t apply for the job. You’re not qualified. There was no handover. You just happened to stand in the wrong spot.

Then it happens.

The doors are starting to close and you see someone running towards the lift.

Everyone sees them.

As the person standing closest to the buttons, this is your moment.

You quickly look down for the button with the two little arrows pointing away from each other.

Open doors.

You press it.

Except you don’t.

You press the one with the arrows pointing towards each other.

Doors closing.

Oh no.

You look down at the button you’ve just pressed.

The person running towards the lift looks at you.

You look at them.

They look at the doors.

The doors continue closing.

You want to yell, “I DIDN’T MEAN TO! THE BUTTONS LOOK ALMOST EXACTLY THE SAME!”

But it’s too late.

The doors close and you are whisked away, leaving that person standing outside believing they have just encountered the rudest person in the building.

It’s even worse when the lift is full.

Now you have witnesses.

Ten complete strangers just watched you see another human being running towards the lift and apparently make the calculated decision to shut the doors directly in their face.

Nobody says anything, of course.

Lift etiquette.

But you know they saw it.

For the rest of the morning, you think about it.

I didn’t mean to.

Surely they know I didn’t mean to.

Why do those buttons look so similar anyway?

Who designed them?

Perhaps I should have waved apologetically through the closing doors.

Would that have made it better?

Probably not.

Now you’re not only the person who shut the lift on them, you’re the person who waved goodbye while doing it.

Meanwhile, the person left behind has probably already told someone about you. “You won’t believe what happened this morning. I was running for the lift, she looked directly at me and closed the doors.”

This is why nobody wants button responsibility.

But imagine deciding one day that you were no longer going to follow any of these unwritten rules.

You stand at the lift waiting patiently until the doors finally open, then pump your fist into the air like Lleyton Hewitt winning a point at Wimbledon.

“YES!”

Already, everyone is concerned.

You step inside but, instead of performing the compulsory turn towards the doors, you stay exactly where you are.

Facing everyone.

Now nobody knows where to look.

You press your floor.

Then another floor.

Maybe one more.

Then you look around and tell the left passengers with the tourist like enthusiasm “I’m taking the scenic route.”

At this point, the other passengers are trying very hard not to make eye contact with you because they understand the rules of lift travel and you quite clearly do not.

You turn around and face the wall.

Not the doors.

The wall.

Maybe you whistle or tap your foot.

Or, if you really want to cause complete social chaos, start a conversation.

“So, what’s everyone up to today?”

Silence.

Nobody is prepared for this.

These people got into the lift expecting a standard Level 1 to Level 8 journey under the internationally recognised rules of Lift Etiquette. They did not consent to audience participation.

Then, just as everyone is starting to wonder whether they are on some sort of hidden-camera comedy show, you see someone running towards the closing doors.

This time there is no confusion about the buttons.

You find the close button.

Press it firmly. Look directly at them and yell:

"You’ve gotta be faster than that to catch my lift!”

Doors closing.

Now there is absolutely no doubt.

You are the crazy lift lady.

Although, crazy? No.

I’ve simply decided that after years of blindly following the completely imaginary rules of lift etiquette, I’m going rogue.

The strangest part, though, is how seriously we all take the little floor numbers.

Some people have been riding the same lift every day for years. Decades, possibly.

They know exactly what is going to happen.

The lift will go up.

The numbers will change.

Their floor will arrive.

Bing.

Yet every morning, lunchtime and evening, there they are, staring intently at those numbers as though today might be the day the lift finally mixes things up.

Perhaps Level 7 will flash rainbow colours.

Maybe music will start playing.

Perhaps the number 12 will actually be level 4 and mess everyone up.

Something must surely happen eventually to justify the thousands of hours humanity has spent staring at lift indicators.

But no.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Bing.

“This is me.”

And off we go, released from the strange little silent social experiment, ready to start talking again.

Until the next lift.