The Midlife

A week ago, I had to make several professional calls letting some teens know they had won a series of raffles. Many I had left messages for and others were answered by their parents. As I asked for the winner and began to introduce myself, the stern “I don’t want to talk to you, if you are a telemarketer/doctor’s office/credit card company/charity/political candidate’s fundraiser” was undeniable. Have we grown so cynical or short-tempered that we could never imagine a call of good news? I wonder.

It’s hard to believe we ever enjoyed a time where smart phones didn’t exist. We have the capability of sending an urgent text to a loved one asking how many eggs are in the fridge to googling what this eye twitch might mean. All at our finger tips. We can screen spam calls, block people from contacting us, all without blinking an eye. While I appreciate the convenience, I certainly miss the more innocent times of my 80s youth. I feel sorry for my daughter that she’ll never know the true meaning of what it means to wait.

When I was in sixth grade, my best friend at the time and I would get on the telephone after school and talk on the phone for hours. We passed the time giggling, making plans, sometimes talking about schoolwork, and often times talking about boys. Back then, we had a princess-style phone, and a few standard push-button phones connected to an answering machine. Unraveling the tangled phone cord would be considered a minor annoying adventure. I miss those days sometimes.

We learned about call waiting, relentless busy signals, and interrupting a phone call (for an additional charge). We checked the weather, called to check the time (“At the tone, the time will be 6:50 pm.) when we were bored, prank phone calls a la Is Your Refrigerator Running? and calling radio stations to have a song dedicated to your sixth grade crush. Ah, the nostalgia.

Leaving a message on an answering machine for a returned call as a tween produced so much anxiety, yet I had no other option. I needed my friend to call me back as soon as she got home from the mall or from watching the latest ABC After School Special. I’d be waiting.

Occasionally, my phone antics caught up with me and my sisters when we pranked the wrong number: 911. “No, Operator,” my mom said. “We don’t need an ambulance. Yes, I will tell my kids that 911 is not a joke in your town.” I would call those teaching moments indeed.

So, dear reader. Tell me. Are you Team Smart Phone or Retro Classic? I would love to know. Please leave me a message, after the beep.