I genuinely enjoy nice long phone calls with my best friends and close family. I grew up witnessing my mom and her sister talk to each other on the phone every evening, even though they worked together and always saw each other in-person, too. They often talked about nothing much at all. Their phone calls were short and sweet conversations about what they were making for dinner, or a favorite television show, or how their kids were driving them to distraction in one way or another. They were each others best friends. I read somewhere that a best friend isn’t necessarily someone you call when life falls apart (though those friends are certainly important). A best friend is the one who is there for those tough times, but just as interested and willing to help when you call asking for a recipe or to gripe about how your husband asked, “What’s for dinner?” for the thousandth time.
I understand that texting is, for many, more convenient and a preferred method of keeping in touch. But for me, texting feels like writing. I still text with most of the conventions of writing. Greetings and salutations. Sentences with capital letters and punctuation. Paragraphs and organized thoughts. I typically rely on 3 or 4 emoji’s as extras: a heart, some version of a smiley face, clapping hands, maybe a thumb’s up or a check mark. Occasionally, my fancy phone suggests an appropriate emoji (I see you, birthday cake) and I’ll go for it. But mostly, if I can’t express what I need to say with a simple heart, then it’s time for an actual conversation. Talking is so much easier for me. I’ve often been told that I write quite a bit differently than I speak. Maybe this is true for you, too? When I write, I am interested in clearly conveying my point or theme. I may attempt some form of creative writing, but in general my goal is to cover the topic. But when I talk, I want to tell the whole story. With my whole self. The small break in my voice when I am close to tears. The way I can channel my mother’s voice and expressions. The comforting pauses as I wait for you to tell me about your life, too. The curse words that I am still too conditioned to view as “bad words” to put into print, but love to speak out loud, now that I do not believe the words are bad and that using them does not, in fact, make me bad. Oh, shit!
My sons call me several times each week. And my sisters, too. And a few dear friends. My claim to fame, if I have one, is that I always pick up the phone for people I love. And I am thrilled to hear from them. Every. Single. Time.