A couple of weeks ago I visited New York City for the first time. I’m a west coast girl, born and raised in the land of the genetically friendly, so I braced myself for New Yorkers’ legendary brusqueness. My expectations were grim but eager, kind of like when I was on the school bus in the fifth grade and Randy Rassmussen passed around a tiny magazine picture reported to be male genitalia. I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant, but it was all part of growing up. As it turned out, I only had one New York encounter that fit the stereotype: the woman taking our tickets to see Les Paul demanded our money, told us how much more we were required to spend inside and ordered us to sit down, with the ‘and shut up’ clearly implied, making no pretense to care one way or another if we chose instead to turn around and throw ourselves under a bus.

Scary ticket lady aside, however, I found the hospitality of most New York salespeople indistinguishable from that of Seattleites, Vancouverites or San Franciscans. In my random 48-hour sampling, it appeared that the Wonder Bread of warm, fuzzy retail-speak had triumphed, a revelation I found as depressing as people’s willingness to pay $300 for a pair of jeans. I didn’t actually want to be snapped at, but without realizing it I had been looking forward to a change from the endless parade of formulaic inquiries into my happiness quotient and the somewhat tyrannical admonishments to enjoy my day, evening or weekend. I thought it would be a relief to be allowed to be miserable.

It is time someone said it: the social ritual that begins “How are you?” and concludes with “Have a nice day!” has gotten out of hand. Like so many things, it went commercial and lost its soul. It sold out to the man. I am happy to exchange such pleasantries with those whom I have shared the intimacies of regular patronage - we have a bond forged by my showing up at eight o’clock Sunday morning wearing slippers and sweatpants purchased during the Reagan years; a bond cemented by overhearing me commit the mother’s felony: giving in to requests for treats after I’d already said no. They have seen the lines on my face deepen and multiply; they know that I almost never remember to bring my own bags.

A comfortable familiarity grows between people who become acquainted through small interactions over a period of years. We might exchange congratulations or condolences at times of celebration or loss, but for the most part we simply experience the passing of time together; our involvement is through the ordinary transactions of daily life - buying groceries, mailing a letter, choosing the coolest binder for the first day of school. Such transactions take commerce back to its roots – buying what we need from people making their living providing it. This is why we delight in shopping at street fairs or farmers’ markets, or buying shrimp and crab from fisherman on the docks. It is one of organized society’s most natural arrangements, and it satisfies like a good meal.

Unfortunately, the pleasantries that accompany these exchanges have been packaged and regurgitated as corporate sales policy; stores require their employees to follow rote courtesy protocol and post minimum wage minions at the door to ask us how we are doing when we arrive and wish us well when we leave, as if they were the shopkeeper on the corner who watched our parents age and our children grow up; as if during the ten minutes we are in the store we have developed a relationship that requires closure.

I once noticed that my grandparents never asked, “How are you?” but rather, “Are you keeping busy?” Your emotional state was not their primary concern; they wanted to know whether you had something worthwhile to occupy your time. Maybe it was the protestant work ethic, the ‘idle hands are the devil’s workshop’ thing, but they were on to something. America is supposed to be the land of the insanely busy, but I’ve been to the mall several times recently and I have to tell you there are millions of people wandering around on any given day who have nothing to do, and retailers are panting for as much of that free time as they can get. If they have to pretend to have a relationship with you, or act like shopping is some sort of exciting experience akin to swimming naked with marine mammals, so be it.

Not long ago I purchased a packet of $6 bubble bath. I would have been happy to just put it in my purse, but I watched mesmerized as the woman behind the counter wrapped it in two different colors of tissue paper, then folded refined brown paper around the outside (carefully leaving bits of the two colors peeking out at artistic intervals), fastened the paper with a gold embossed sticker, put the whole thing in an opaque vellum sleeve and tied it with three different colors of raffia. The only thing missing was a string quartet that played Brahms and a sprinkling of some fragrant herbs, perhaps some kind of exotic aphrodisiac.

It is always disheartening to watch language lose its meaning through misuse and overuse. The word “freedom” has been co-opted for political gain, as have the expressions “family values” and “people of faith.” The terms “toxic,” “holistic” and “environmentalist” have definitely had their day. I’d hate to have to retire “how are you,” but its utterance and our mechanical response has become a social convention devoid of meaning. So I have a suggestion, based on the theory that the market will regulate itself: when asked, tell the person how you really are. Make sure and include your terminally ill relative, your child on probation and your horrific credit card debt. Explain that you might be coping better if only your sex life would ratchet up a notch. Don’t forget to make eye contact. Repeat as needed.