Telephonophobia

I just cleared out my voicemail on my cell phone. Yeah. The messages were, oh, um, what, crap. Like, they went all the way back to March 2nd. And um, the mailbox was, er, full. (To be fair, half the messages were from Andrew, who will call back every five minutes.)

I'm a terrible phone person. I don't chat very well. If I'm mildly upset or stressed, I reeeeeeally don't chat well. Emily has a very funny story about me "chatting" with her on a day when I had been particularly stressed, where I thought I was being all chill, and apparently I was coming off more, oh, serial-killery.

And cell phones... gar. Really, just don't try to get a hold of me via cell phone. Chances are about 4 in 10 that I even have it with me. Add in "forget to charge" and "has she even turned it on?" and you're much better off either figuring out who I'm with or just giving up on an immediate rendezvous and leaving me a message at home, because eventually Andrew will have to listen to the messages.

My discomfort with the phone extends to listening to messages. They are just a reminder of how much I suck at answering the phone, remembering my phone, checking my messages. I'm sure that every message left will be someone disappointed in me, so I just don't want to hear it.

Yay, maturity!

So yesterday when I answered the phone from my brother, that's a testament to how much I love him. Our conversation lasted all of five minutes, though, because as soon as he told me his wife was pregnant (surprise!), I was incapable of forming coherent sentences.

I broke.

Broken.

Pieces. Everywhere.

I'm really happy for you, but I can't. I. It's. I can't.

and I hung up.

Yay, maturity!

This is not going to help my fear of the phone.