I really hope this isn't a sign

It's nerve-wracking getting a new phone number. I changed over my beloved, mathematically interesting mobile number to a local number here in the sauna they call Georgia. Or at least I thought I did. The School for the Gifted Office at WringtheirJugular Wireless seemed completely thrown by my request. So thrown that the "local" number they gave me was for . . . Virginia?

Do I take it personally? Even Cingular would rather I stayed in the mid-Atlantic? Should I become concerned that my usually very smart cell provider cannot figure out basic zip code and area code coordination?

My rage at the poor operator this morning has been tempered, however, by a decent workout at the local gym (hooray trials!) and my first hot shower in a week. I feel clean for the first time in days. Now I have to re-read Macbeth and some sonnets and ponder the meaning of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight for both intro level students and English majors--I'm teaching it to both of them to save a prep. Should be entertaining. "Why is he green?" "Why do you think he's green, Timmy?"

I'd like to add as an aside that someone down the hall from me in my department is blasting Pat Benetar's "Love is a Battlefield." Do I do the hooker shimmy dance made famous by that video down the darkened hallway and roll the dice? Or do I simply sing along from the relative privacy of my office . . . ?