What was I thinking? Vol. 14

Telephonophobia is real.

My fear of the telephone began at a young age. I’m not sure how or why it began, but it did and it affected me adversely for a very long time. According to this website there may have been an event in my past “linking telephones and emotional trauma.” [They also have a telephone number to call if you want put an end to your fear of the phone.] Maybe it was that time I tried to call Santa and got the county jail by mistake. They go on to list a number of symptoms, all of which I experienced when faced with speaking on the phone in the past:

"Symptoms typically include shortness of breath, rapid breathing, irregular heartbeat, sweating, nausea, and overall feelings of dread."

This is why even the idea of temping caused me an ulcer after I graduated and moved out of my childhood home without a job. When push came to shove, I dumbly stated that I would do reception work when filling out paperwork for the temp agency. With a sucker born every minute, they immediately sent me off to a fashion designer, a culinary school and every other level of reception hell available.

Anyway, another such job was for yet another fashion designer. Due to their lesser fame I was not asked if I was thin, pretty or stylish. Instead I was asked to answer phones, as is the usual requirement for reception jobs. However, unlike the other few I’d lived through, their phone service was ancient. No voicemail or answering machines of any kind. I had to ask who it was, put them on hold, intercom (oGAD intercom) the person who the call was for, ask them if they wanted to talk to the person calling, and then transfer the call or take a message accordingly. No one ever wanted to talk to the person calling. There were stacks of pink 'while you were out' pads all over the desk.

So I sat at my temporary desk, anxiously waiting for the phone to ring and when it did my heart took a dive. I answered. There was a thick accent happening. I was scared. The conversation went something like this:

HB: Hello [name of lesser noted designer]
CALLER: Hello! Mister Ander Dare Ivan either shpeener.
HB: I’m sorry?
C: Is Anne Daring there? I need to speak (muffle).
HB: No, she’s out at the moment, can I take a message?
C: Tell her Pancake Carborator called and to (muffle) back. I’m in Ashperg.
HB: Um…Where are you?
C: Aspen. Tell her to (muffle) she gets in.
HB: And what’s your name again?
C: Ratcan Perrywinkle. She has the number.
HB: Um…Pardon?
C: Ashland Fishtwist.
HB: Ok, I will have her call you. Thanks.

I wrote down phonetically what I heard and gingerly placed the little pink paper in Anne’s mailbox. Not five minutes later she appeared. There was an interrogation. I was scared. The conversation went something like this:

A: (accusingly) What does this say?
HB: …Anthony Bergshoner?
A: Who?
HB: I’m sorry…I couldn’t understand him. He had an accent and said he was in Aspen.
A: (with wide-eyed disbelief at my incompetence in her voice) [correct name here]!?! The owner of [lesser noted designer]?
HB: (inaudible) yes?
A: (angry now) Where is he?
HB: Aspen?
A: piercing rays from eye lasers melt my flesh as she looks down at me.
HB: He said you had his number?

This job in particular did nothing to help alleviate my telephonophobia, but alas, I eventually conquered all my years living with the disease without contributing to the wealth of a pharmaceutical company. For me it was a simple cure of forcing myself into situations where answering phones paid for my next meal. I still hate the phone and will always have someone else make the call if I can, but my heart no longer palpitates when faced with the seemingly simple action.

Yay for me!