The conference call had gone well. A few action items had been developed.  The group had made forward progress and I was able to hear most of the meeting.

As the call wrapped up, however, I was unaware of a once loyal body part that had suddenly turned against me. Apparently, I had not provided my left earlobe with the care and attention that it felt it deserved, because it was struck with an urge for rebellion.  The need to thwart my attempts at professionalism.  For as my name was called on the other end of the phone, “Dave?”  I glanced at my phone to turn off the mute function and discovered that my mischievous earlobe had placed me on some random status screen.  Far, far away from the mute button.

I was there, but I wasn’t. Present, but absent, in one soul.  I fumbled through menus and screens, as my co-workers around a distant conference table repeated their plea, “Dave?  Dave?”  Then, chuckles.  Had Dave fallen off the edge of the Earth?  No!  Damn it!  I’m here!  I live!  More thumbs desperately trying to return to the right screen.  More requests into the empty void, “Dave?  Dave?”

A strikingly unpleasant ten seconds must have passed (gasp!). Desperate, I located the phone screen.  My thumb stretched for the mute button.  Another “Dave?”  More chuckles.  Then pressing down, I pleaded for mercy with a humble, “I’m here.”  Meek and embarrassed, I picked up the pieces of my tattered dignity.  Damn you, wayward earlobe.  No soft pillow for you tonight.