Convert

I have always been a staunch opponent to the automated telephone system. I would much rather talk to a real person than navigate my way through a telephonic maze to find the specific department I need. I never understood the people who prefer button pushing to question asking. It is infinitely easier for me to say, “Uh, I don’t really know who I need to talk to, but I’m trying to find the [insert the reason for my call here]” than it is to decipher where my request fits into their automated options.

That is, it was easier…until now. Now that I work in the quietest office on the planet, I am a convert. I called the pharmacy last week to check on my prescription. I cleared my throat to prepare it for clear whispering (which is required when you try to handle any personal matter while on the phone in the quietest office on the planet). I planned my conversation – how to ask for prescription information without revealing too much personal info to the guy in the next cubicle (who is bound to listen as my whispering shatters the silence).

I dial and wait, my hand cupped around the receiver to try to muffle the conversation I’m about to have. The friendly, automated voice answers and directs me to press 2, “If you are a patient.” I press 2 and ready myself to quietly ask if my drugs are ready.

The automated lady asks for my phone number. I punch it in. She tells me that my prescription is ready, and offers to tell me the cost if I press 2. I do.

In minutes and without silence-shattering conversation, I hang up.

So, I am a convert. But it makes me wonder…has working in this silent environment made me shy away from all conversation? Maybe the real world has changed me more than I thought.

A Paige by any other name...

I won’t be modest, I’ll just say it. I like my name. I think it is pretty and amazingly fitting. I’m a writer, and my name is Paige. It is almost a joke, like the pastry chef named Mr. Baker or the physician named Dr. Feelgood (wait, that one actually is a joke). The only way for my name to be any more fitting is for me to marry a Mr. Turner or a Mr. Booker. But then, that might be a bit much.

As many children with unique names do, as a kid, I dreamed of having a different name – something normal with a nickname. I wanted to know someone with the same name as I had. I wanted to laugh when someone mixed us up and say, “Oh, no, that was the other Jennifer (or Tiffany or Stephanie).” But now, I’m glad that I don’t have to distinguish myself from the other Paiges. I’m one of the only ones I know.

What I don’t like about my name is the way I say it. I feel like I swallow half of it or I struggle through a mouthful of marbles to get it out. It is clumsy on my tongue - especially when I try to enunciate it. Paige is too curvy to enunciate, I end up just drawing it out and making it sound sloppy and graceless. I say my name in a rush of breath with a hard G tailing behind.

The thing is, I like how other people say my name.

My dad calls me Paigey in this light, springing way. It skips off his tongue, instead of tumbling, letter over letter, like it does off mine. Scott uses my name sparingly in conversation, but he does it very well. He sounds slightly like he is reprimanding me, but in a very fatherly way. Like he is shaking his head at my hijinks, kind of laughing to himself. I like it. Brent says my name with that special Tennessee twang that gives all the letters a little more oomph. I think the twang might add extra syllables.

In third grade, kids used to make fun of my name. Mike Fry used to heckle, “Hey Paige, is your mom’s name Book?” I would just smile an embarrassed smile and say, “No, her name is Zoe.” (Another one of those unique non-Jennifer names) He asked me every day on the playground, until I answered, “No, but my dad’s name is Cardboard.” Pretty clever for an 8 year old, huh?

I have fewer problems with my name now. It is slightly more common than it was in my youth. I think that Paige has cracked the top 100 names for new babies list. But even with my rising popularity, I hit the occasional snag.

I was babysitting Tanner and Faith on Friday, and I realized that there was no way I’d be able to whip up some fabulous, healthful, nourishing dinner for Tanner and I with an unhappy, teething Faith on my hip. I decided to order pizza.

I called in my order, over the wails of the baby girl in my arms.

Pizza Guy: What is the apartment number?
Me: Twenty two.
PG: Seventy two?
Me: Twenty two.
PG: Oh, twenty two. And your name?
Me: Paige
PG: Jade?
Me: Paige.
PG: Cage?
Me: No, Paige. Like a page in a book.
PG: Oh, okay. Got it.

Forty five minutes later, the pizza guy arrives. Faith is contently taking a bottle after being soothed by baby Orajel. No more wailing. Tanner and I are just digging in to our pizza, when I notice the order sticker on the end of the box. The name on my order?

Paper.

Unruly hair day

Someone complimented my eyebrows once. I thought it was odd, especially for a situation in which a compliment wasn’t called for. It wasn’t like I had just complimented her on something then paused a loaded pause waiting for her to compliment me. It wasn’t like I forced her to search my face for something worthy of compliment only to be told that I had “really great eyebrows.” She came up with it all on her own and totally out of the blue.

For those of you who aren’t intimately familiar with my eyebrows (that would be all of you), let me describe. I have scant eyebrows. They aren’t full and bushy (uh, thank goodness). They are trim and short-ish and mostly blonde. Blonde enough that if I don’t put color on them, they can easily disappear. I don’t pluck them. Don’t need to, they are naturally well kempt. In general, they lay nicely above my eye, quietly looking “great” (as evidenced by the compliment I mentioned earlier). Today though, my left eyebrow has gotten a little rambunctious. I have a few errant hairs that are pointing up toward my hairline rather than following the slow curve toward my ear. I have guided them delicately back into place twice today, but I’m wondering if, even now, they are sneaking back out of line.

My eyebrows aren’t my only renegade hair. I have the Stubbe cowlick. (Thanks Mom.) Mine is less noticeable than the boys’ since I have hair, but it is there nonetheless. The lady who cuts my hair likes to part it to hide my cowlick, but let’s be realistic, I don’t part my hair, it parts itself…and my hair isn’t overly concerned with hiding my cowlick. I think my hair is a little proud of the cowlick. I’ve been growing hair for 25 years, and that little patch enjoys growing in with a kink.

Come to think of it, the rebel eyebrow is directly under the cowlick. Maybe it is hoping to branch off from the eyebrow and join the cowlick. Unruly hair unite!