It’s my first day back at work in the new year, and I’m greeted by an email from my boss asking everyone to update their emergency contact information for HR. Is it terrible that I have to double-check my husband’s phone number every time I’m asked to provide it?
My grandmother’s been dead for 15 years, but her number I could tell you. I learned it when I was five. It was the only number I knew, so I’d call her up and tell her about my day. It couldn’t have been all that compelling, but she hung in there anyway, bless her heart.
My husband? When I try to recite his number from memory, I invariably invert digits. I would claim it’s undiagnosed dyslexia, but I know full well I just never memorized the damn thing. The night I met him, I put it in my phone and that was that. I say “Call Preppy,” and technology takes care of the rest.