I’m 56-years-old and I don’t know my phone number.
Yes, I know — but let me explain.
We moved two years ago, and after some deliberation, we decided to keep a landline. I don’t exactly remember why, but I know this: in two years, I haven’t given out that landline phone number even once. The phone rarely rings, and if it does, it’s never anyone I’m interested in talking to.
Of course I have the number — just not in my head.
Anyway, I may be too feeble to remember my phone number, but I do remember when the phone hanging on the wall was kind of a big deal. It would ring and we’d all run to answer it if we were expecting a call, sometimes fighting off a sibling who was also waiting to hear from someone.
Occasionally, it would be one of my aunts on the phone. You’d know this because when you picked up, they’d say “Who’s this?”
Not “Hello,” not, “Hi, this is your Aunt So-and-So,” but “Who’s this?” What? You called here — who the fu*k is this?
So, here’s an idea: Maybe the next time the damn house phone rings, I’ll just answer it that way. “Who’s this?” Who’s this and why are you calling and who gave you this number. Now have a nice day.