Seems I have plenty of company in my quite justified dissatisfaction with robocalls.
So many of us, mostly old people, I suspect, have complained to the agency controlling cyberspace practices that they’re cracking down on them. That’s right – a robot dialed my number at random. I have this mental picture of a tin-clad figure poking his metal finger on a keyboard.
Other robots contact me via the Internet, but a click on “Spam” consigns them to the electronic sub-basement. Thereafter, every time my e-mail address comes up on their screen, it’s a permanent detour to that black hole in the communication space.
That’s assuming I hadn’t once created a “relationship” with them. Because I’m a catalog shopper, I’ll be offered their latest bargain. If that offer came to my mailbox, I could examine it on my own time, then either act or recycle. Besides, those mailings may help the postal service hang in there a little longer.
So what does this have to do with health or any other aging matter? When we get so fed up with something that it eats at your gut, venting is therapeutic. If someone gets under your skin, venting aloud produces ill will and hard feelings. Here’s my safe prescription for relief: Write your gripe. Use all the bad words you know. Read it a time or two.
Then turn that paper into confetti.