I hate picking up the phone. No, I loath picking up the phone. When I hear that ringing noise and see the caller ID flash an unknown number my whole being cringes. This could be something as stupid as Rogers Video saying I have not returned a DVD, or it could be a teen who is in trouble, or it could be someone wanting to know something that I don’t have the answer for. Someone wants to talk to me.
It’s the not knowing that gets me.
When the caller ID shows a number I recognize it’s almost worse. Why are they calling? It could be something as harmless as wanting to borrow my Star Wars DVD collection, or something could be wrong and they need my help, or they may have a question I don’t have the answer to. When their name flashes on my BlackBerry screen I instantly wonder if I did anything recently to make them angry. I wonder what they might want from me, and I wonder if whatever they are calling for will require me to stop what I’m doing now and do something else. I hope it’s not that bad news I’ve been expecting.
My defensive skills tell me to let it go to voicemail or to throw the phone across the room. My heart tells me that someone might be reaching out for help, and I need to reach back. I pick up the phone. It’s as recorded voice saying I need to return my copy of “Precious”. My heart rate goes back to normal.
Ring, Ring. Ring, Ring.... to be continued.