On the phone, 1986: in a funky one-room office on the 11th floor of an old building on Park Avenue South at 25th Street. First day as an ill-fated entrepreneur. The many framed official documents on the wall behind me were part of a 26-picture display of such items that I always put up in my offices. These official documents included my Congregational Church confirmation diploma, my Camp Fire Girls Torchbearer certificates, and my Perfect Attendance Record from Sixth Grade at Ferndale Elementary School. No one, in any office I ever had, ever read them; the sheer mass was that impressive. Tell your granddaughters: this is a career tip.
MY COUSIN BARB called a few minutes ago. We hadn’t talked for over a year—and we had a good, medium-length, multi-topic conversation ending with dates and plans. And then, it was time to hang up.
Yesterday, I eavesdropped on a conversation of John’s with his friend, Steve. Here it is, in its entirety:
“Yeah, what’re you doing? Lunch? Ok, Rio Dell? See ya.”
That’s not how women terminate conversations, regardless of how recently we’ve seen each other or how long the visit.
“It’s been great to hear from you…We’ll see you soon…Let me know…Sounds good…Thanks for calling…okay, bye. Bye. Bye.. and have a wonderful holiday…you too…Bye…tell her hello for me..yes, you, too….Bye.” The beats are consistent, the phrasing is symphonic, the final release is slow and soothing.
This is one of the examples of why I love being a woman. We have a telephone — dance of detachment?—that is ritualistic, thoughtful, and graceful.
Please, God, don’t send me back as a man. The salary increase and the ease in peeing outdoors isn’t worth it.
Know what I can't stand? Phone conversations with men. Men do monologs. I can squeeze in an interesting comment, and a man will go on a non-stop tear, holding forth on some tangential subject. I don't care how much I might love a guy, I guarantee I'll hate phone conversations with him.