Nothing will bring the petulant child out in me quicker than having to talk on the phone. Never mind we had the LONG cord when I was younger that you could stretch across three rooms to talk to your friends. No. Never mind that shit.
Never mind the fact I was on that phone for hours at some times.
We are friends no longer.
Ironic as my phone holds my life in its little rectangular self.
And, like many others, I use my phone all the time.
But not to actually speak to another person.
Received a letter and needed to make a call this morning.
I attempted to bypass this horrific necessity by visiting the website. Chatted with Mike. Nope. That man gave me a phone number I needed to call.
Really, Mike?
🤨
If there is a plus side, it was that Victoria, who answered the phone, helped immensely.
But, with all my acronyms, sometimes it's fucking hard to actually tap in the number. Much less, have a conversation with reasonable acumen.
Sometimes I'll save up phone calls like I'm a squirrel hoarding acorns, and do the deeds one after the other.
Purge them sequentially.
Then exhale after the last, like I had a life-saving reprieve.
Dramatic?
Probably.
Necessary?
Indubitably.
There are things, as I age, that I specifically will butt up against and refuse. If you don't need my weight at the doc's office, you're not getting it. If something is damaged in my grocery pick-up, it's being returned.
Less patience. A little more understanding.
Could be worse.
