Facebook me. Email me. Tweet me. Send me a letter via snail mail.
Drive to my house, and talk to me in person.
But don’t call me. I hate talking on the phone.
Well, if you’re driving to my house it’s OK to call ahead, and give me a heads up. That way I can hide all the dirty dishes in the sink in the basement, and wipe up the splatters my six year old left on the floor around the toilet.
But, save the chit-chat for when you get here.
I’ve never liked talking on the phone. I wasn’t one of those teenage girls who spent hours on it with my friends.
I don’t know why I dislike talking on the phone exactly. It just always seems awkward to me. You’re talking to someone, but there aren’t any visual ques to help you interpret what’s going on. Is the long silence because they’re bored with you, or are they just shushing their kid who’s yanking on their pant leg?
The other problem with the phone is that it interrupts. For some reason we feel this sense of urgency when the phone rings. Even if we’re in the shower, we’ll streak through the house, clad only in a towel, wet hair dripping, damp foot prints marking our path on the carpet to get to the phone only to realize too late that all the curtains in the house are open.
No. I’ll take email over the phone any day. I’m free to read it, and reply when I feel like it. Emails sent to me at 5:30 in the afternoon don’t interrupt dinner with the family. There aren’t any awkward pauses. I can send an email even if my kid is screaming in the background that his brother touched his foot, and how dare he! I don’t have to keep trying to send you an email if you’re not available. It goes through the first time, and you can read it when you have time.
I embrace all the other forms of electric communication as well. Twitter, Facebook — they just don’t put the same pressure on you that the phone does.
Am I the only one who hates the phone? There must be someone else out there.
Talk to me. In the comments. Don’t call me about it.