The Lost Art of Hanging Up

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I give you permission to judge me about what TV show I watched yesterday.

I sat through the first Episode of Rob and Chyna, a reality show so bad, that I cannot think of another as woeful and I have watched a lot. My oldest boy has hooked me onto something called Extreme Tightasses, which is about people who use their tea bags eighteen times over. But I digress.

Rob and Chyna. I have watched it so you do not have to. Use this time to pluck your moustache. It is less painful. They spent the entire episode yelling at each other. Chyna is up the duff with yet another Kardashian, while Rob calls her a psycho, and other lovely terms of endearment. After one particularly harrowing phone call, Chyna screams and then hangs up on him.

And this is where the blog post should have started. Hanging up.

During my teenage years, I was a black belt phone slammer-er. Now this was back in the day when it meant something. The actual, physical act of delivering emotional drivel down the line, followed by a SLAM, well it just doesn’t have the same effect nowadays.

I watched as Chyna struggled with her very long nails, deliver her lines and then pull the phone away from her, detect the END button and gingerly press it, so nails were not damaged. Pathetic.

*Sits on porch, swinging on a rocking chair*

Back in my day, you could end an argument dramatically and without notice by slamming down that handset. Nowadays, you get a sense of it due to the small window of silence while the other person locates the END button. A few times with my Mum, she would get in first which was always very upsetting. I would often call her back, and she would pick up only to have me slam the phone down on her. Because…. maturity.

Once, in my twenties, I was on the receiving end of a b0llocking from my boss when it all came to much. I didn’t slam the phone down on this occasion, but gently replaced it back into its cradle. Boss called back immedialty wondering why we got cut off, before the bollocking continued.

About once a year, I will have words with my beloved and hang up on him. He will then text me to remind me of my age, yet absence of maturity. Civility ensues. (most of the time anyway)

I grew up with four siblings and there was a lot of phone slamming. I knew this because there was always a line waiting for the phone, and being teenagers, nothing made any sense at all. Boyfriends were particularly mysterious and painful and were more often than not the object of ones wrath.

Alexander Graham Bell, thank you for the good days.

Do you miss the old phones ever?

Have you ever hung up on anyone? Why?