They say acrophobia – the fear of heights – stems from the miniscule, unconscious temptation we all experience while stood on the edge of something tall to throw ourselves to our death. But for me that’s never really been a problem. Simply because, thanks to a similarly irrational affliction known as ‘liftphobia’, I’ve never actually made it anywhere near the height required to potentially cause myself even the most minor mischief.
It’s not so much an issue with the lift itself. I can deal with ascending vast altitudes within a cold cage of glass and steel that could, at any point, malfunction and send me plummeting to a violent, fiery death. No, this is not my concern at all. It’s the social difficulties that I struggle with. And with lifts being the preferred method of vertical transportation in Abu Dhabi (I once asked a hotel receptionist to point me in the direction of the stairs and was greeted with an expression that implied I’d just requested he levitate right there on the spot), it’s becoming a rather large problem.
For starters, where in heaven’s name are you supposed to look? Straight ahead into the reflective doors, taking note of how ever so slightly more tired and haggard you look than you did yesterday morning? At the LED display, with its steady increment of little red numbers, just so that your co-riders know how impatient you are to escape the oppressive burden of their company? At the ceiling, in a half-hearted attempt to give off the impression you’re about to strip down to a dirty vest and do a John McClane?
One particularly groggy Sunday morning, I decided to address the problem head on. Ignoring the traditional lift etiquette that prioritises avoiding eye contact with fellow occupants above all else, I instead opted to stand facing my sole lift buddy (a well-heeled gent with a tidy haircut) and stare directly and unflinchingly into his face. It might well have provoked some sort of dramatic fight to the death, with the victor decapitating the slain with the lift doors and declaring himself Lord of the Lift. Or, at the very least, one of us might have burst into tears. But, predictably, his response was to calmly reach into his pocket for his BlackBerry and read an imaginary text message, pausing for the briefest of moments to register the exact location of the alarm button.
Crestfallen by this failed experiment, I’ve since dropped back in line and behaved in the way people expect you to in a lift. Absent-minded humming, little glances at the watch. One day I actually got so bored that I totted up my total time spent in this excruciating state of limbo. Between leaving my apartment on the ninth floor, ascending to TOAD Towers’ 14th floor office and nipping out for lunch, it clocked in at five and a half minutes. That’s 330 seconds of intense awkwardness, every single day of the week.
But it’s okay, I’ve worked out a solution. For efficiency’s sake, if nothing else, I’m currently talking to Time Out’s finance department about expensing a jetpack. No more fist-bitingly uncomfortable elevator encounters for me.
David Clack is our Music and Nightlife Editor
