Faculty Feature: Dearly, Deleted by Cyndi Roe

I exchanged phone numbers with a boy today—a boy who was born the year I turned thirty. We had only been in graduate class for about an hour together, but in less than thirty seconds, there I was, tapping his number into my phone, and pressing “Save to Contact List.”

I didn’t even know his last name.

My phone is burdensome. It weighs me down. It accuses me without mercy. My contact list has three “Abbies,” two Caitlins with a “C,” two Kaitlins with a “K,” and the names of six ex-boyfriends whom my daughters used to date. I am not going to contact any of these people—especially not the garage-band boyfriend. One night before a “killer gig” of his, I walked in on band boy in my bathroom using my nail polish and mascara. No, I will not call these people, but I am not going to delete them either, at least not today. Someday my inner helicopter-mom may need to hover.

My contact list does contain three of my best girlfriends whom I haven’t talked to in a long time. It is one thing to say, “I’m sorry I haven’t called you for two weeks.” It is quite another to utter, “I’ve been thinking about you for the last three years, but somehow in the past 1,095 days, I’ve been either too busy or too disinterested to call.” 

Of course, my brother is in my contacts. He should stay. When I see his name, I’m reminded to call my parents, who live two blocks away from my front door. My brother lives two states away from our parents, yet he talks to them more than I do.

Like many people, I have restaurants and doctors and my employers in my phone, along with the Justus Veterinary Clinic, in case our dog’s allergies flare up. But there are two dozen names I don’t know: a Becca, an Antonio, a “Michael #4,” Harvey, Harodji, and Ho. For the life of me I cannot remember exchanging numbers with a Ho. I search my memory in vain for an encounter with anyone that I would save under a derogatory slur. No one comes to mind.

My ex-mother-in-law is in my phone, even though she’s dead. I thought about calling her number, just to see what would happen. But if I don’t call my friends who are living, what would possess me to dial the dead? I should probably delete her like I deleted her son. Her husband, though, will stay in my phone. After all, he is “Papa” to my children.

My parents, too, will remain in my phone, as will my husband, my daughter-in-law, and six of my seven children. One of my girls changes her phone numbers so often, I don’t know which contact to keep—“New Phone,” “Next New Phone,” or “Newest New Phone.”

The last contact on my list is “Weight Watchers.” If I had called them more often, I’d probably be mowing the lawn in cute white shorts instead of sweatpants. 

It’s time to lose some excess baggage, so tonight my phone and I are going on a diet. I’ll start by deleting the boy from class I added yesterday. In less than thirty seconds I can shed forty-three numbers and six bad memories. I am on my way to being lighter already.