Monday, April 21, 2008

Excuse me, my bra is ringing.

I'm notorious for being near impossible to reach by phone. Truth be told I hate phones. Talking on them makes me uncomfortable. I don't know why, perhaps some deep psychoanalysis might some day bring that issue to light.

I cringe when I have to call a business, like an insurance company or the bank or any type of customer service line. I get as nervous as if I was calling in for a job interview. I make Matt phone in all of our take out orders. Those incompetent 16 yr. olds on the other end of the line are just too frightening. (He hates this by the way but I think he's finally just embraced this duty and all I get is a sigh followed by a playfully surly "hand me the phone")

Now that's not to say that I don't like speaking to friends and family via phone - I do - once I'm actually on the phone that is. I just don't like calling. I really wish I could explain why but it's a grand mystery - kind of like the popularity of "Rock of Love" or how so many college girls can convince themselves that it’s cool to be degraded and exploited in a Girls Gone Wild video.

My other problem is that I can never seem to hear my cell phone and this is the very bane of Matt's existence. Not much rivals his temper after he's called my cell phone 20 times in a row only to find out hours later that I left it in the van or on vibrate in the bottom of my purse.

However, recently I've made great strides in my cell phone awareness and have begun carrying it on my person at all times. This way even if it is on vibrate, in theory I should still be able to recognize that someone is trying to reach me. For the most part this newfound dedication is for Matt's benefit alone, but truth be told, it's also because my very great friend is getting closer and closer to her due date and I want to be available should she need me to catch the kid as it falls out of her, and/or to fetch some Hawaiin punch and Bugles and marvel at the disappearance of her belly button (I swear, it's completely gone - it's stretched so far it doesn't even exist anymore!).

My problem in this new phone carrying endeavor is that I don't always have pockets. So I'm often forced to go with the "universal carryall for the ample chested" – the bra. The phone is not quite so discreet as a pacifier though. It's too sleek and slick to be safely housed in the cleavage – there’s too much danger of it slipping through and onto the floor. Therefore I've determined that the best place is near the top of the cup, close to the strap. It creates quite an unsightly lump though but that’s the sacrifice I’m willing to make for my hubby and my friend.

1 comment:

Becky said...


The older I get, the more I hate my phone.


In your bra.