Over one and a half hours of grueling torment of “I am important to you” messages and the nauseating loop of Muzak I was ready to snap. I found myself glaring at the phone, daggers erupting from my eyes, tunneling through hundreds of miles of fiber optic cable to find a human on the other end, any poor wretched soul who was unlucky enough to be the target of my Tomahawk missile of righteous fury.
I wasn’t immediately angry. At first I tried to occupy my wait time with various activities. I could catch up on some TV, wait, first let me turn down the volume so I can hear this automated hell. Ok, now that is too low, can’t hear the TV. Turn it up a notch or three. Good. Crap. Was that a real person, grabbing the phone and talking into pre-recorded misery. Nope. False alarm. Volume reduces back to inaudible levels.
Ok, screw TV.
Read. Yep. Grab a book, any book. This is good. Relax. Settle in. Flip a page or two with no clue what was going on because I was more aware of being told I could go to their website for more useless information. Don’t they know I did that already? If the information was available on the stupid website I would not be wasting my day listening to your idiotic droning! It’s not! The only thing it says is for more info please call 1 800 WE-HATE-YOU! Who in today’s world doesn’t try the website first?
Book. Yeah, I was trying to read. Settle down again. Try to concentrate. Find the balance of understanding the words on the page and being aware of elevator music in the background. Yep. Doing it. Words are good. Music is good. Music is soothing. Words are relaxing. Eyelids feeling heavy. Settled down now. Really comfortable. Words getting blurry. Music getting softer.
Wait. NOPE! Sit up! Screw reading!
Instead I will stare at the phone. I will be angry with the phone. I will hate the phone.
90 minutes later a very nice woman helps me with my issue. Her heart did not explode while speaking with me. She didn’t put me on hold because a 60 foot tall pigeon took a dump truck sized dump on her office building. Tomahawk daggers did not emerge from her phone like a Nightmare on Elm Street scene, rip her ears off, then feed them to the nearest co-worker.
None of that.