My mom messaged me on Facebook the other day—it’s how she keeps in touch with me, so she doesn’t call/text every 10 seconds—asking me to call home soon because my dad misses me. It’s kind of a novel concept, my calling home.
For four years I was maybe two hours away from home, but I had a prepaid phone and couldn’t talk for very long. Seriously, who decided that $15 a month is workable? I cheated, though, and picked the option that pulled $5 from my posted balance every month and gave me 300 texts. I absolutely hate talking on the phone, so texting was and is ideal for me. I can think, edit, and insert those little emoticon-smiley things to give the recipient a sense of my intended tone. Now I have a contract (which got me a Blackberry for free. Squeeee!) that gives me plenty of minutes and texts; My old roommate has since decided to teach me to like talking on the phone now that we can call each other for free.
Actually talking on my phone still isn’t something I look forward to, but it’s downgraded from severe antipathy to vague distaste. I have to remember that I can’t talk with my hands, or my poor phone will make a three foot suicide jump away from me. I will admit that it’s handy to have more minutes, just because I’m sure classmates will have to call me at some point, to arrange group work or study sessions.
Maybe someday I’ll adore talking on the phone. Someday.