She then proceeded to explain her vision for turning a Victoria’s Secret pajama set I’d sent her into several daytime looks. Next to it was an arrow and the words “raise to listen.” I pressed play. a box of old clothing that I’d purged from my closet-one millennial’s “cheap velour party dress from 2005” can be a Gen Z-er’s “vintage collectible.” A few days later, a long blue bar of wavy radio lines appeared on my phone. In January, though, the teen-age daughter of a good friend helped shake me out of my communication doldrums. You know the iconic nineteen-sixties snapshot of the “ Valley of the Dolls” author Jacqueline Susann, gleefully squawking on the phone while wearing a floaty white nightie and sequinned slippers? After a while, the only part of that photo that seemed relatable was the nightgown. I still called a few close friends to pass the time during my afternoon strolls (a practice that the Internet collectively has dubbed “stupid little walks,” for its compulsory, unfulfilling feel), but our hearts weren’t totally in it. Zoom “happy hours” or book clubs that were supposed to feel “restorative” began to feel like heavy obligations. As the months of uncanny living stretched on, I found that I had less and less juice left at the end of the day to pour into idle conversation. But a simulacrum is only satisfying for so long. These calls were a serviceable imitation, at least for a while, of meeting someone in a dark bar and gossiping about things that don’t matter while your drinks sweat onto the table. Like many others, I took comfort in long, meandering gab sessions often, I’d speak to a friend late at night, while we both took refuge in our respective bathtubs. A year ago, when life in New York City suddenly contracted to the size of my living room, I got very into making phone calls.
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