When you live in New York, you innately grow a thicker layer of skin. Like a shark's hide. While many view this layer as arrogance, they fail to realize the intensity of navigating millions of people each day just to get to work. Add grocery shopping en route home (slithering down a three foot wide aisle with accuracy required by the luge) and you're a Xanax away from short circuiting.

Most non-New Yorkers fail to realize that underneath this protective layer are elements of patience, tolerance and respect. If everyone cooperates, we all win. If you push somebody off the subway or dart to grab that last can of peas, you're subject to judgment by a jury of thousands.

The theory of cooperative living keeps the city well oiled. There's always a trap door to dodge, but it's possible that one person per day may extend some act of kindness. It requires being alert enough to spot it, since everyone's conditioned to hide inside their shell. But when it does happen, you feel a little more visible and a lot less cynical.