Don't Call Me - Camilla Basham

"Don't call me, just text me. Calling is so 90's" my teenage daughter scolded me. It dawned on me that she may have a point. I realized that days would go by when not only would I forget to check the answering machine on our home phone, but at times I couldn't even remember where we kept the home phone. My IPhone was slowly meeting the same fate.

Weeks earlier it had dawned on me how lovely it was to be able to turn the ringer off on my phone and only respond to texts when it was convenient for me. As a result, the numbers in the tiny red circle over my voicemail icon grew and grew and I watched them grow, not with concern but with a sort of amusement. The kind of sick amusement I get watching the parking tickets pile up on my car.

It comes with an acceptance of who I am: a woman who hates talking on the phone as much as she does driving around endlessly in search of a parking spot. My daughter assures me that such acceptance makes me both "bad-ass" and a "rebel" and convinces me that in teen speak that is a good thing. I'm going to trust her on this and smile as I turn off my ringer and write out another check for $50.