The Hardest Call to Make
In 1998 (oh. my. god. I’m. old.), a college friend worked at Sprint and “hooked me up” with a cell phone. I remember it being about the size of a shoe, not a ballet slipper, but more like a men’s workboot, size 13. I picked out my phone number, and that phone number rocked. 596 9596. Or, if you want to be tricky, 59 69 59 6, which messed people up every time. (”Wait, what? 5959659596?”)
Our contract expired in August, but I held out, justifying that we’d need the phones in September when we visited. Yes, we were only back for a week. But, I justified the $78 a month for our two phones just for that one week.
Now it’s October and I can no longer justify throwing money down the toilet for phones we can’t even use over here. I just called AT&T and canceled. Keep in mind, in the ten years since I got the phone, I moved six times. Meaning contacting me was not always easy. But my cell phone number WAS easy. It never changed. It (along with the cat, I guess) was the only constant in my life, the only thing that’s been the same for the past decade. Heck, even my NAME has changed.
So, perhaps I’m being unneccesarily sappy about getting rid of my cell phone, but for some reason this little bit of contact, of normalacy, seems so hard to give up.