Blink

As a child, I couldn't understand my mother's attachment to the phone. She could be on for hours. Days. Eons. Once, I kept telling her how sick I felt. She, thinking I simply wanted her off the phone, kept telling me to go play somewhere. As an only child, that's what you're told. "Go play somewhere. Like in the street." Turns out, I had pneumonia. I still use that one when a guilt mallet is called for. "Remember when I told you I was sick and you ignored me and I had to go to the hospital and stay in a tent?"

Then I got to junior high/high school. Then I loved the phone. Loved it. Would use it for hours. Made my parents get call waiting. I desperately wanted my own telephone line, but they wouldn't bow to my will, despite the fact I was an only child. See, I wasn't totally spoiled.

In college, it turned into a toy. We'd leave long, rambling messages on people's answering machines. My friends in the dorm had the phone number 7-BEER. We'd call them at all hours, leave them messages, crank them.

Or I'd stay on the phone for an hour with my friend, Dan, who would watch Ricki with me. You know, Ricki Lake's show. Or is it Ricky? Or Rikki? Anyway, we'd watch the entire show while on the phone. And he was straight. I know, hard to believe.

Now that I work, however, I am back to hating the phone. At my old office, I'd put post-it notes over the blinking light indicating that I had messages. My receptionist is my best friend, because she sends calls straight to voice mail whenever I want. Which is most of the time. I feel like I've developed some kind of social anxiety issue, where I can't talk to anyone who might cause me the least moment of trouble, pain, concern or other problem.

I don't even get fun drunk dialing phone calls anymore. How did this happen?