A short phone number is one of her simple needs

I have been letting my fingers do the walking over the past few weeks.

They have walked down Route 1, Highway 630 so many times that, frankly, they are ready to sign up for a marathon. The only problem is that they sometimes get lost or forget to take the trip altogether.

The requirement of adding 1+ the area code to phone numbers is not only taxing my digital dexterity but also my telephonic acumen.

You'll get used to it, said one friend.

Sure I'll get used to it. Just like I got used to my hair turning gray, my hips turning wide and my eyes turning blurry. It's inevitable, but I don't have to like it.

Another friend said she couldn't believe I was complaining about the extra numbers and said Americans are spoiled.

Spoiled, how can she say that? I have simple needs, my coffee hot, my cellulite covered and my phone numbers short.

At an age when I can hardly remember to put milk on my cereal in the morning, I have to remember four numbers to dial people who have been in my seven digit memory my entire life. The additional numbers will undoubtedly have an effect on fundraising events and school reminder calls. Having to call 50 people is another 200 punches on the phone. One hundred people and you might as well declare a knock-out, the phone will have sustained so many punches.

My husband said it could be worse. We could be like the countries of Europe with a myriad of numbers. The phone numbers of Europe don't interest me. I am never going to call Czechoslovakia to order a pizza.

I guess I could handle the telephone change if there was an easier way to handle the calls that I make in error. In a quiet room, while working on a quiet story, I call my editor to ask a question. I am relaxed. My hands are relaxed, doing the familiar motion of fingertips dancing over the keyboard.

Then I hear the loud, bleating cry of the telephone tones of terror. They erupt into my ear with a volcanic explosion, registering 7.0 on the seismographic decibel scale.

Of course my cell phone is worse. The little instrument I am forced to carry has a key pad that is so small that my fat fingers never end on the right number. If I try and send a text message it takes so long that I have forgotten the message before it is completed.

Will I ever get used to this new way of calling?

A Chicago friend had the answer. Dialing 11 digits is nothing new to those who live in the 312 area code. It could be worse, she said. When all of the numbers are gone we'll probably have to remember to dial the number 2 instead of the number 1 and then our brains will explode.

And to think I was worried about my fingers.