I haaaaate talking on the phone. Not in the: “We have text now, why would you ever call me?” way, (even though I agree with that statement.) I mean, I have alwayssss haaaated talking on the phone. Which is weird because the year I got my own phone for my bedroom – a bulky white one with grey push buttons that was made of a plastic I can still smell in my mind – it was the best Christmas of my life. But actually having to use the phone was a different story. See, for a person with a pretty high level of social anxiety, the phone is a friggin nightmare.

This has always been my thought process whenever someone calls to wish me a happy birthday:

They probably felt obligated to call and can’t wait to get off the phone. I have nothing interesting to say. Ugh they’re probably so bored right now. I’m overthinking this and now I’m acting weird. This is getting really uncomfortable. Oh my Lord I need to get off the phone. Think of an excuse. Think of an excuse. Damn it you idiot, can’t you think of one stupid reason to get off the phone? But then they’ll think I’m rude. I wish they knew it was me and not them.

“Ok, I’ll let you go … thanks for calling. Bye!”

Long ago my Aunt said she could tell I hate talking on the phone and did me a favor and hung up quickly. It was so freeing to admit to her that yes, I DO hate talking on the phone and thank you so much for understanding! Although she probably DIDN’T understand because I’ve never seen anyone love talking on the phone more than my Aunt Diana. But then, that woman doesn’t have an ounce of social anxiety in her body. She’s the type of person I’ve always been envious of because she talks so naturally to anyone and just seems to feel comfortable all the time. That is definitely not me.

I still shudder thinking about having to talk to boys on the phone. Part of that was because (in my granny voice), back in my day, I’d have to talk on the kitchen phone and the only barrier between me and my mom cooking dinner was the dining room wall with the sepia-tone mural of a fancy Italian villa. Who wants their mom listening as they’re trying to have a conversation with a boy?? I’d sit on the forest green carpet, wedged between the wall and the giant breakfront that housed copious amounts of lead crystal ashtrays and enough China settings to accommodate 700 people. This was where I’d go to slowly die as I wracked my brain for things to talk about, desperately trying to avoid awkward silences. Then I’d hang up and sit through dinner rehashing every dumb thing I said in my mind. My stomach would be so twisted that I could barely eat one of the 68 chicken cutlets my mom made for our family of 4.

I wish I could say that as I grew up I grew out of it – I didn’t. But it is one of the reasons I knew PJ was meant for me. The first time I drove to his apartment, he was giving me instructions because (granny voice again) it was before GPS and I was lost. He stayed on the phone and was so calm and casual, cracking jokes and saying something about batting 100. (I’d find out later he was quoting his favorite movie Caddyshack.) But there was never any awkwardness between us, not on the phone or in person, even when there was nothing to talk about.

So if you’ve ever talked to me on the phone and I acted like a complete weirdo, just know that it wasn’t you, it’s me. And now that you know, please never call me again.