As society speeds up, courtesy left behind

New Fisher-Paulson milestone: 85 days into the semester before the first suspension. And this time, Zane hadn’t fought with a sophomore, or told a teacher where he could shove that algebraic expression. No, he’ll get mad if I put the reason why in the newspaper, but suffice to say that there is a time and a place for the activity he engaged in, just not on the second floor of a high school on a Tuesday afternoon.

It really was a question of etiquette. But social mores are difficult for any 14-year-old boy, let alone Zane.

Gotta admit that my husband, Brian, is better at this than I am. He was raised in New England and is so excruciatingly polite that Miss Manners used to call him for advice. He can tell you where to set down the ramekin and which fork to use for the shrimp.

Growing up in the Paulson family in Ozone Park, we didn’t have cloth napkins, and our version of grace was, “Rub-a-dub-dub. Thanks for the grub. Yay, God!” A friend once described Brian and my relationship as “Downton Abbey” meets “Roseanne.” But in our 32 years together, I’ve learned that when Brian coughs it usually means that I’ve got something in my teeth, or I sneezed so loudly that he thought it was extreme unction.

So yes, it’s ironic that he and I are trying to teach social rules together: Don’t eat spaghetti with your hands. Don’t split infinitives. Don’t gargle chocolate milk. Put the seat down.

Zane and Aidan don’t make it easy. Not having spent my time with typical American teenagers, I don’t know if it is normal for boys to have contests like, “Whose armpit smells worse?” or “Who can burp their way through the alphabet?”

And it’s a strange world to be teaching these lessons in. Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but have you noticed that people don’t say, “You’re welcome” anymore? Whether it be thanking the barista for a particularly foamy latte or the mechanic for an efficient lube job, whenever I say, “Thank you” the response is either a nod of the head or “no problem.”

I have a problem with “no problem.” No problem is dismissive. When I spend a hundred bucks on theater tickets, and I thank the usher for tearing those tickets in half, I don’t want to hear that it’s no problem. I want a little formulaic courtesy: Thank you. You’re welcome.

Call me a curmudgeon, but I miss the niceties. “Welcome” is a term dating back 500 years, and it come from the word “wilcuma,” which means “to take pleasure in hosting a guest.”

Courtesy is the structure by which a society holds together. We don’t put out a “No problem” mat at the front door. When someone moves into the outer, outer, outer Excelsior, we don’t send out the “no problem” wagon.

“You are welcome” went out with the Information Age, because we’re learning to speak in shorthand. Now that they have busted out 280 characters, it’s an even bet that the president will tweet his State of the Union address. When I type the words “Thank you” in a text, my iPhone tries to substitute it with a picture of two hands clapping, but what that tyrant Siri does not know is that gratitude cannot be reduced to an emoji.

As Mohandas Gandhi once said, “There is more to life than increasing its speed.”

Here is one of the few things that Brian and I are consistent about with the boys: Whenever we express gratitude, we don’t throw it over our shoulder, or yell it into the next room. We look the person in the eyes, and say, “Thank you.” And if someone expresses appreciation to us, we look them in the eyes and say, “You’re welcome.”

Nowadays, it takes too long to say, so people have discarded it, right alongside handwritten notes, sitting down to dinner and tying actual bow ties.

Worse than “no problem” is “no sweat.” When my cheeseburger arrives at the table, I don’t want to know whether it caused the waiter to perspire.

Progress comes in little steps. Zane and Aidan might not be the best behaved children in the world, and we might not be the most adept parents. But it was a small victory the day that Zane served the suspension, after running errands together (he was punished well and truly: We made him watch the Hallmark Channel), that as we sat down to dinner, Zane said, “Thanks for not blowing up today.”

I looked him in the eye and said, “You’re welcome.”

Maybe I’m just old-fashioned, but have you noticed that people don’t say, “You’re welcome” anymore?