I am a bad person with a massive guilt complex, but I rarely return phone calls. I do not like them. They require too much real-time presence, and the only time I have any real-time presence to give is, generally, at night after bed time, a time I devote to a) recovering and b) novel writing.
I am so protective of my time. I feel like it’s a slippery eel, always swimming away from me as I grab after it with both hands. When it comes to phone calls, I’m not good at multi-tasking, unless I’m cleaning. That I can do. But I really can’t talk on the phone and tend a child–not because I necessarily give said child that much attention, but because, I think, it’s the same attention. I only have so much to offer another sentient being in my space at any one time. For the some reason, I have begun to fail at the kind of shared playdates where the mom comes too, which are usually the best kind–I just can’t talk to all these people at once.
So what this boils down to is that I don’t return calls. Not to my best friend, not to my own mother, not to my mother-in-law, who I think is the only one who takes it personally. I just hope that these people will continue to put up with me even though I only call them when there are dishes to wash and I can find the head set.
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