5 reasons I don’t pick up my phone (and neither should you!)

So my poor telephone is on its last legs, and I’m finally breaking down and getting a shiny new iPhone, for a wide variety of reasons. (It’s pretty! It does “smart” stuff that my StupidPhone Blackberry can’t! It can play music and take photos that don’t look totally terrible! Designing iPhone apps will be easier if I can actually see how things work!)

This probably means that I’ll be forced to finally change my voicemail message, which is faulted for featuring a lengthy pause between me speaking and the beep, among other things like being mumbly and unclear. Since I very rarely pick up the phone, and I never pick it up when I don’t recognize the number, I am thinking I’ll change the message to read: “Hi! This is Sarah. I’m not picking up because I’m busy working on your project. Send me an email instead!”

My hatred for the telephone, I think, is well-justified. (I sound a little like a monkey on meth while on the telephone as well, but that’s irrelevant. Mostly.) While some people seem to think it’s annoying that it’s so hard to get me on the telephone, I have my reasons, and I’m sticking by my guns.

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Hand-bound book

Opportunity doesn’t knock, it breaks down your door

For the past few months, I’ve been planning and plotting and getting myself excited about the prospect of another big trip. Those who know me are well aware of my fondness for travel, and I haven’t gone anywhere interesting (Ottawa doesn’t count) for some time. I had big plans (South America, Death Valley, Mexico) that never materialized, for one reason or another, and I was sure that this was the one I’d be able to do.

As it turns out, it’s not. Due to a variety of factors, I’m staying home. While this was a little crushing at first to realize (I was so excited!), I am choosing instead to approach it as an opportunity to enjoy the nice Halifax weather that’s been happening lately (must be a cosmic fluke and/or the universe conspiring to send me thousands of tiny little signs that I should abandon my plans of abandonment) and to spend more time doing fun projects, which I almost invariably wouldn’t be doing if I were on the road.

For starters, I’m finally going to invest the time and floorspace into setting up a proper workspace for myself, rather than just lounging on the couch all the time–I do miss having creative space (why oh why did I sell my drafting table at a yard sale for $15?) and things stuck all over my walls, and sometimes the entire upstairs of my apartment looks like it’s been hit by a cyclone that carries nothing but paper scraps, bottles of ink, and empty cans of energy drinks.

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What’s on the outside counts, too!

Two years ago, I made an incredibly rash decision. I was standing in front of a row of boxes, a little worse for wear due to an excess of celebration the prior evening. A sick feeling settled over me, and I decided to run with the impulse.

Two hours later, I was a blonde. (Actually, this isn’t true. It took more like the entire weekend and six boxes of bleach to get there, which ultimately destroyed my hair and left me with no option but cutting it all off, eventually, but that’s another story.) For me, it was a massive change, as I’ve always been prone to identify myself by my haircolour. People often know me as the girl with lots of bright red hair (admittedly, I’m still working on getting the “lots” part back), and all the varied preconceptions and stereotypes people have about redheads tend to apply to me, too. (Whether that’s an issue of nature or nurture, I’m not quite sure, but let’s assume it’s irrelevant.)

So going blonde was definitely an impulsive choice, and part of my desire to do so was to play with my own sense of self. It was fun for a while (mostly because I’d show up places to see friends, and they’d look quite shocked), but eventually I went back to something akin to my natural colour (after testing out almost every other colour combination available to me. Seriously, it’s no wonder my hair ended up destroyed).  The experiment led me to realize just how much of who we are—both how we see ourselves, and how others see ourselves—is encapsulated in our appearance. As much as we may try insist on silly maxims like “don’t judge a book by its cover” and “it’s what’s on the inside the counts”, what’s on the outside is almost invariably a reflection of what’s on the inside.

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