I hate the phone. October 18, 2006

I always have.

I didn’t even like it in high school, when you’re supposed to, when staying up all night on 3-way with your two bff’s discussing whether super-hottie Jon Mitchell really meant “I like you” when he asked “Can I borrow your pen?” in Western Civ is a rite of passage. Not even then.

I especially hate the phone at 1:30am, when he wakes me up out of a deep sleep. I tell him I don’t mind, because I want to hear his voice, even at that hour. Because I want to find out about his day. Because I want to attempt to connect, despite the miles between us. Because I miss him.

But nothing good ever comes out of it. A half awake girlfriend and a just finished work, stressed out, overtired boyfriend does not equal a fulfilling conversation. There are pauses and lots of “so” followed by the other person’s “sooo.” We recount the minutiae – his conversation with his boss, my dinner with my best friend – and eventually one of us says “I should probably let you get some sleep” (usually him) and the other one feels a bit hurt, a bit hurried off the phone (usually me).

We pepper the conversation with “I miss you” and “I can’t wait to see you” and “baby, this sucks.” And we mean it. Of course we do. We’re both ecstatic that come this evening we won’t have to conduct our relationship over the phone, at least not for a day or two. It will no longer feel so forced, will no longer be so inconvenient.

In honor of our (temporary) reunion, I will be putting all the working out I’ve been doing to good use by donning some lingerie I picked up recently. It is pink and girlie and frilly and perhaps I’ll put my hair in some low pigtails to complete the look. Because another reason to look forward to getting away from the phone and back to the physical is, well, getting back to the physical.