When in a pink funk, phone a friend

And actual conversation with a friend beats social media any day.

I’m writing a memoir about the year I turned 15, and I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time with my diaries from that time in my life, and though I filled pages with “and then she went, ‘totally!'” and “then she goes, ‘for gross!'” and “then she went, ‘gag me with a spoon!'” (nobody every said anything, they all went), I rarely write about how much time I spent on the phone recounting these conversations.

I know I was always on the phone because I remember sitting for hours in the hallway between my bedroom and my sister’s, curled up with the receiver to my ear and the cord wrapped around my arm (it’s true, back in the Dark Ages, teenagers didn’t have their own phones — and if they did, they were very lucky and probably stuck up — and phones had cords back then … I’m sure I was on the phone because I wasn’t allowed to do anything).

“How can you still be on that phone!” my dad would bellow from the living room. “Didn’t you talk to your friends all day?! What more is there to say?!”

Dad just didn’t understand. There was so much more to talk about. I had to recap with my friends every move, every breath, every nuance of every interaction I had with every boy in every class all day long — there was so much to talk about.

Nowadays, I’m happily married and relatively less obsessed with boys (obsessions with boys are never good, but they’re criminally dangerous at my age), but I was reminded how good it felt to recount the ins and outs of my day with a friend when I called one and talked to her. For an hour.

I used to spend hours of every day on the phone with this friend when I worked for her in our respective home offices and we needed to compare notes about the horrible conference call we’d both endured, but we’ve both gone on to greener pastures (watch your step or you’ll be knee-deep in a cow pie!) and less frequent phone calls. 

Still, even with out the common bond of our work, it was so wonderful to vent to my friend about drudgery of my day and the flies in her ointment and whatever else irks us about the quirks and jerks in our lives (and the value of the Powerball … I’d buy a Major League Baseball team, I swear, I would!).

I just can’t verbally vomit like that — politely anyway — on Facebook.

So if you’re having a crap-dap-dappy day, my prescription for you is to call a friend. You’ll feel better in minutes (possibly 60 minutes, possibly more … “will you hang up flippin’ phone already?! What more is there to say?! Do you have your homework done?! Don’t you roll your eyes at me! You’ll be grounded this weekend, and you won’t like that — no phone either, missy!” … oh dear, memories of my 15-year-old hormone fits are strangely echoed by my 40something hormones — what’s a girl to do, but succumb to the riff? … it’s my bloggy, and I’ll dye if I want to, dye if I want to, dye if I want to, you would dye [it pink] too if it happened to you … haters goin’ hate).

“One of the qualities of true friendship is to understand and to be understood.”

~ Lucius Annaeus Seneca

Note to readers: Best ignore the stuff in pink. Ignore at your peril. Warning: Funks cause extreme sarcasm. This product can burn eyes. Shin pads cannot protect any part of the body they do not cover. This product is not intended for use as a dental drill. Do not eat toner. Do not use orally. Beware! To touch these wires is instant death. Anyone found doing so will be prosecuted.


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