I had to do a lot of phone calling today. There was a time in my life when this was actually rather frightening. I remember freaking out once when I called my mother at work and a man answered. I was seven or so, and the fact that the phone betrayed me was a big deal. I remember slamming the receiver down and running out of the room as if the guy on the other end could see me.
It took me about a week to even attempt it again.
Then there was all of childhood, where I would call my best friend down the street to ensure that if I walked down there, she would be waiting. I remember calling and getting her dad, and I would freak out because he was the type to try to joke with me.
"Can I speak to Jennifer?" I would ask.
"I don't know," he'd say in that age-old-dad-jokey-tone. "Can you?"
And, yes, even that scared me to bits, and I wouldn't be able to respond for a whole five minutes, leaving Mr. Jennifer's Dad feeling sorry for me he quickly handed the phone to his daughter.
Yeah. I know. It wasn't a big deal.
That has turned into the chorus of my life.
And I guess, sort of my approach with phone calls, because, well, I weirdly like making them. Stay on hold and listen to Muzak? Okay! Phone tree options? Hurrah! Leave a survey to talk about my experience? Um, yes!
It's weird, but a part of it might be because I had terrible conversation skills growing up. But I was always the one to call to fix our computer. It just went that way.
So, today, when my boss gave me a sheets of museums to call to confirm their information, I saw it almost as a pleasant way to pass the time. Being in a cubicle all day doesn't do much for human interaction, so even if I am just talking to confirm a small bit of information, it was rather exciting.
Did that sound sad that I'm excited? Because I don't care.
Photo via.