You don't have to be a philosopher to understand the social contract that governs America's cubicle culture. Beneath the over-enthusiastic "Hellos" and canned laughter lies a cynical yet remarkably effective gentleman's agreement that can be summed up in about four words: I really don't care. Sure, I just cheerily asked you how your weekend was, but that's just because we stepped into the elevator at the same time--I really don't care. Or, yes, I just enquired how your work was going, but that's just because I'm killing time before the conference call begins--please don't misconstrue my chummy tone for genuine interest. Naturally, you strike a separate peace with the handful of folks who you actually like, but with most of your colleagues you probably have the corporate equivalent of a non-aggression pact: as long as social interactions are limited to salutations and small talk, everyone can coexist peacefully. Usually, most people not only understand this tacit agreement, but they eagerly adhere to it.

Sometimes, though, somebody does something rash, like buy a house or have a baby, and begins to labor under the misapprehension that the fact that they can procreate exempts them from the usual "don't ask don't tell" protocol. For some reason, people believe these topics to be as universal as weekends. They are wrong. Though we all use the Gregorian calendar, ensuring that our weekends fall on the same dates, we don't all have babies or own houses. And some people, like me, don't know the first thing about these subjects, so once we get by the obligatory congratulations, we don't have the slightest idea what to say or ask. When a colleague tells me that his wife is having a baby, I sincerely wish him the best, and then start to panic. If he's already debriefed me on the basics, like gender and potential names, I usually ask about a "sonogram" because I've heard other people ask about them before. I am not really sure what a "sonogram" is, but I think it's one of those creepy, grainy black and white pictures some proto-dads tack up in their office. It's not that I begrudge expecting parents their pride and happiness; it's just that I don't need to see their intestines. Plus, I'm a bit worried about a slippery slope effect. How far back are we going to go back with prenatal photography décor? In ten years, will imminent dads be decorating their cubes with pictures of their loins? I'm not John Ashcroft, but I don't need to see that.

When someone tells me they're buying a new house, I'm a little better prepared because I've seen houses before, and lived in them for most of my life. I'm also reasonably well versed in the vocabulary of house types--cape, ranch, colonial, etc.--and even know what constitutes "half" of a bathroom. Unfortunately, though, I have no appreciation of how large a square foot is, and talk of square footage is de rigueur in the "I just bought a new house!" conversation. Aside from knowing that a house with more square footage is bigger than one with less, I'm as baffled by square footage as most people are by stones. Ostensibly, a square foot is a unit of measurement that has something to do with a foot, but so, presumably, does a foot-candle, and I have no earthly idea what that is. Is a 1,000 square foot house big? One thousand is a big number, but I don't think so; I just don't know. I've lived in houses for about 17 years without ever knowing how many square feet they were, so why should I have to learn now? Until I get around to figuring all this out, my stopgap solution is to act impressed whenever someone tells me how many square feet their new house is, which means that people with small houses think I'm really stupid, or worse yet, insulting them.

The upshot of all this is that most people really don't care if their co-workers are having a baby or buying a new house. Most people, like myself, are very happy for new parents or homeowners, but we really don't care enough to become familiar with the intimate details. It's understandable that the transport of joy that accompanies buying a starter home may delude some into believing that the woman in the office across the hall cares how many fireplaces are in the floor plans. Whenever I'm gripped by this desire to share, I stop and think how many people the woman across the hall really wants to talk to--maybe 40 of the world's 6.2 billion people. That means that there is about a .000000006% chance that she is going to care about what I have to say. When faced with these Powerballian odds, I just keep whatever it is to myself. I just wish others would do the same, and understand that when you realize nobody cares, everybody wins.