I got her number!

I got her number! I got...

I got her number? What is this, nineteen fifty-two? Am I bobby-soxing my way to the latest jitterbug hop at the the Maltte Shoppeppe? I don't think so. Last I checked, Communism, marijuana, and loose women had gone the way of the penguin. Which is to say, not extinct, just adorable. So what's the deal with phone numbers? This is twenty-oh-six, and if the television has taught me anything, it's that the first step after meeting a girl is to have a TORRID affair in the walk-in freezer at her workplace, none of this messing around with further forms of prearranged communication! 'I got her number' has been played out since Good Will Hunting and that was a blinkin' decade ago! Isn't it about time we switched to wireless direct mental uplinks or something?

Although, "I connected a wireless direct mental uplink into her brain!" does not sound like apples I would particularly enjoy.

Likewise the inevitable shorthand: I jacked into her head. That's... that's something one sees on the grodier parts of the Internet.

Regardless, the number is still the benchmark of importance, innit? And that's not likely to change. For one thing, with very few exceptions, e-mail is not sexy. And instant messaging is even less sexy. I've been more turned on by Excel than by AIM. What can I say, spreadsheets are VERY versatile! Phones, on the other hand, CAN be sexy, and they can be truly nerve-wracking. That's right, they can hork up a sense of Seinfeld-level minutiaphobia that makes the logical contortions of a fourteen-year-old girl's diary look like... like... what's the opposite about stressing over insignificant details? A dude not even noticing he's on fire? That's actually a serious medical problem. Let's say, an aging mill worker who refuses to acknowledge his persistent heart murmur. Anyway, the prospect of the big ol' phone call makes the former look like the latter in the caller's frustrated obsessing over the inscrutable details of the upcoming call and, yes, the significance of every detail therein.

I know, I know. I may rail against it, but I'm not immune to the condition of reading too much into things. Like this! Like this ten-digit number which, for all the attention I'm giving it, must be the code to the vault door behind which is all the happiness in the entire universe! And the duty... no, the onus... nay, the GEAS falls upon me to dial in this code at the EXACTLY PERFECTLY OPTIMUM MOMENT IN TIME or else ALL IS FOR NAUGHT. Gah! My soul is a writhing mass of torment and confusion and moderate hypocrisy, bubbling over with cold, hard, bitter fear!

On the bright side, though, I got her number. That makes me feel pretty good.