Growing up, I would stay up late and watch the commercials where women dressed in lacy pajamas lounged on beds and asked you to call the 1-900 number. I imagined that, if I dialed the number, I’d talk to one of the girls and fall in love. It wasn’t that far-fetched; people fall in love every day. I hoped it would be the blonde holding a teddy bear. I could tell she and I would connect.
When I received my first credit card, I had barely removed it from the envelope before I was dialing the number. After a few prompts I was connected to Christy, who didn’t sound like the girls in the commercials. She was older, and the smoky quality of her voice seemed to come from cigarettes, not desire.
