Mar 28, 2015 by

03.28.2015 - HBPTSD

          Like I’ve been repeatedly advised to answer my texts in a more timely manner when speaking to guys I’m interested in dating, I’ve also been recently advised to be more interactive with them on social media. Since I’m not currently dating, this advice is basically hypothetical. Regardless, I tend to ignore it. I like my real life a lot more than I like my phone.

          “#shouldhavenevertoldHotBartenderIwas18,” I texted my little sister. “#couldhavebeenengagedbeforeInstaexisted,” I continued.

          “LOOOL #regrets,” she responded.

          “#theULTIMATEregret,” I replied.

          “#foreverregrets,” she added.




          I’ve been mentally preparing for about a month now. While not attached to my phone at all, I am most definitely attached to my phone number. It’s not that I mind having to send all of my contacts a new one. I actually see that as a good opportunity to make plans with people I haven’t seen in a while, as I’m going to be reaching out to each of my friends, one by one. It’s just easier that way. It would take me longer to figure out how to send a mass iMessage without creating a huge group chat than it would to simply send individual texts. Plus, I’m Maria to some and Theresa to others, so a mass text wouldn’t be very effective anyway.

          Although not bothered that I’ll need to message my entire contact list, when it came to my attention upon hire that a company-paid phone would mean a new phone number, I felt like I was suffering from PTSD. I immediately flashed back to 2008, repeating in my head the moment that I gave Hot Bartender my high school email address, which led him to ask my age, which led him to ignore me forever after. Oh yeah, you bet my new-number trauma is a Hot Bartender derivative.

          To help you understand, let me explain why I gave Hot Bartender my high school email address. Recall that Hot Bartender was the god my friends and I melted over at Hotel every weekend during the summer of 2008 that one night asked me for my number. I was in such shock when he tapped my shoulder that I initially supposed Hot Bartender had a doppelganger (or a lookalike, since I hadn’t yet been introduced to How I Met Your Mother, which means I hadn’t yet been introduced to the term doppelganger). I was uncharacteristically glued to my phone for a week following. He didn’t call, apologized for not calling when he saw me the next weekend at Hotel, and told me that he wanted to take me out for dinner.

          Sadly, I was returning to Guelph for school within the week, which meant my phone number was about to change to something Guelph-local. Moving an hour away wouldn’t prompt a phone number change these days, in the smartphone era of plans with Canada-wide talk and text, but 2008 was a simpler time of long distance charges and My5/My10 lists. Based on the fact that Hot Bartender didn’t call the week before, I didn’t expect to hear from him in time, so I briefly explained the situation and desperately gave him my email address as another form of contact. That’s right; I chose to give him my email address over simply asking for his number, because apparently my brain is not equipped to think in order of most obvious solution first. I chose to give him my high school email address – which, let me reiterate, was euro_babie@hotmail.com – over my university email address, because I didn’t want him to write me off as living too far away by associating me with Guelph. As my sister put it: #foreverregrets.

          I proceeded to change my phone number to one local to Guelph, not yet knowing that Hot Bartender would never acknowledge me again, thus not yet learning my lesson. The next time I saw him at Hotel, when I realized the damage I had done, I vowed that once I reverted back to a Toronto-based phone number, I would never change it again, thereby never giving myself another reason to give a guy my email address – though I assure you, that key learning was quickly set in stone. So, in 2009, when I returned to my parents’ house for the summer following my second year of university, I swapped my 519 area code for a 647 number that hasn’t changed since – that is, until my personal phone is officially cancelled at midnight on March 30, because it makes zero financial sense for me to pay for a phone when I have a free one through work.

          And so, I’m mourning the loss of my almost six-year-old phone number because people I’ve met over the past six years, whose current numbers I may not still have, can no longer randomly reappear in my life by simply clicking send. Basically, by giving up my phone number, I feel like I’m kissing potential spontaneity goodbye. I really love spontaneity, friends, especially when a charming guy is on the other end of it. Real talk: I’m mourning past boys. #scarred #thanksHotBartender

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