I don’t know my phone number
In honor of the Lenten season coming to a close, I have decided that I am going to come clean and just confess. I’ve been living in shame for months and I cannot bear the burden any longer. I cannot stand to bear this painful secret any longer. I must let it out. I only hope that you will be merciful.
I don’t know my phone number.
Yes, it’s true. I don’t know my phone number. When we moved into the new house, we got a new phone number and I cannot recite it without assistance. When I go places that ask me for my phone number (like the dry cleaners, for example) I have to pull out my cell phone, speed dial the house, and see what number comes up.
I may need a medic alert bracelet. I may need one of those “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” alert necklaces. I may need to pin an envelope to my shirt with directions on how to return me to my home if I’m found wandering. I cannot remember my phone number.
It’s hard to carry a dark secret around.
I feel better by simply having admitted it. I am a tool.