Journal Entry: Static on the Line
For the past six weeks my telephone has been driving people crazy: lots of people, but not me.
It's been snapping, crackling, and popping. It's been difficult to hear at best and impossible to hear at worst.
If I sit with it just so, hold the wire that goes into the handset still and keep my head tilted slightly to the left, it works. At least, it works for a few sentences or until I take a deep breath and the wire pulls out. Half sentences and dropped calls are routine.
My mother curses, my sister is exasperated but kind, and my long-suffering husband gets apoplectic at the idea of picking up the receiver. So why haven't I changed the phone?
I intend to change it. I intended to change it from the first time the wire fell out of the back and I had to move the couch to reconnect it.
I've gotten so adept at managing the problem that I've almost forgotten it's there. The truth is, I'm used to it.
Fat people can get used to anything. A phone that has to be held in place is a lot easier to manage than walking around with so many extra pounds, navigating runaway hips or dealing with back pain and creaky knees.
The daily fear of what I'm doing to myself and the horror of thinking about what I’ve already done? These are inconveniences worth addressing – a tricky phone, not so much.
But when I realize the degree to which I turn a blind eye, or think about the discomforts I wave off and the way I get used to things I should never have accepted in the first place… then I know it's time to replace the phone.
