Don’t Call Me. I’ll Call You. Maybe.

September 19, 2010


I read an interesting statistic the other day, one that made me think I might be able to ride out the cellular storm after all. The writer of this article said that fewer phone calls are being made these days, despite the proliferation of cell phones and cell-phone plans.

Turns out, most people who buy cell phones these days get the “phone” part only because there’s no other way to get the goodies without this option. Seems texting has taken the place of talking. This could be very good news for typing teachers as well as the makers of arthritis medications.

I already knew I was a landlocked loser, still requiring rough-hewn telephone poles topped, like the brainy kid, with thick glasses—“insulators” in telephone language—in order for me to reach out and touch someone. Heck, it was only after constant harping by Allison that I recently caved and bought a cordless phone—two, actually, since no one apparently can buy just one. Of course, as I could have predicted, the home bases of these roving phones stand empty most of the time, the phones having discovered instead a comfy home under the wet towels in Allison’s room.

Yeah, I’ve got a cell phone. Let’s just say that the last time it rang (or vibrated or tootled or whatever it is that a cell phone does when activated), it scared the crap out of me. Once, when I pulled a muscle in my back, I was half tempted to ask someone to call me, just so I could rub my vibrating phone along the affected area. At 50 cents a minute, it could’ve proved to be a cheap solution to my aches and pains. But I didn’t know my own number, so my great idea was for naught.

I’m no fan of any kind of phone, really. If a call goes more than ten minutes, my ear starts to get sweaty, my mind begins wandering, and the idea of vacuuming starts to appeal to me. Still, I’m not sure what to think about this statistic concerning the slow death of the phone call.

Too many times, I’ve nearly been side swiped by someone looking at his lap rather than the road that’s in front of him. Sometimes I wish the driver in front of me was drunk rather than in a feverish, poorly-spelled “conversation” with some digital friend somewhere else. At least, then, I’d know he would wake up with a furry tongue and a sour stomach the next morning.

We cellular Luddites, though, know that there is no denying a “full circle” feel is in the air these days. We can sense that, just as our flannels and plaids have made a comeback, so, too, might the rotary-dial phone get a second chance. And, while our phones still may not ring much in that not-so-distant future, at least we’d know how to answer them if they did.