It just doesn’t seem like it would be so hard.

But every time I try to do it, no matter how many times I’ve done it before, it’s still hard.

I’m talking about trying to leave the outgoing message on my answering machine.  I can talk up a storm if I have a real person in front of me, but put a machine there and I stutter, stumble, and just plain freeze up.

The first time I try to do the message, I always forget about this momentary insanity.  I push the button with confidence and begin, “Hello.  You have reached the Higgins residence.  We’re not able to fum to the cone right now …”

I can’t even get the first couple of sentences out.  Memories of past attempts surface as panic begins to place its grip around my throat.  I forget simple words or get a tickle in my throat and can’t finish.

I begin the second attempt.  “Hello … ”  This time, I can only stare at the bloody thing and not remember a single thing I’m supposed to say.

I decide to write down my spiel so I won’t forget again.  I rehearse it several times and finally begin once more.  I read my little greeting and heave a sigh of relief when I finish.  Then I realize I have forgotten to end the recording, so the sigh is also on the recording.

Blast it all.  Now I have to do it one more time.  This time the phone rings right smack dab in the middle of a positively brilliant performance, so I have to delete it … again.  I’m certain it would have been “the one”.

I fear I may never get it right.  I think about the people who leave the robot voice on the machine that says, “Please … leave … a … message … after … the … beep.”  I really don’t like them, but it’s sounding pretty good at this point.

I remember one friend whose greeting is simply, “Leave a message.”  Period.  No fluff, no friendly voice, no confirmation that I even have the correct phone number. 

I figure he must have been well past his tenth attempt when he recorded it.

I’m on my fifth or sixth.  I pour myself a Coke and pull up a chair.  I am not going to let this thing win.  I will stay all day if I have to, but by golly, I’m going to have a greeting by day’s end.

Finally, finally, finally, I make it all the way through my dialogue without choking.  I press “record”.  It’s a wrap.  I’m proud, I’m ecstatic, I’m relieved.

My daughter calls the next day and has the opportunity to listen to my new greeting.  This is the message she leaves:

“Hi, Mom.  This is Christi.  Wow, what’s wrong?  You sound really sad in your message.  Is something going on that I don’t know about?  Anyway, call me.  And redo your greeting.  People will worry about you.”

Disappointment courses through my veins.  Redo my greeting?!  It’s obvious she doesn’t appreciate all the hard work that went into this one.

But I begin to fret about sounding sad on my phone and what people might read into it, so I figure I’d better redo it.

Call me sometime.  You’ll hear a great, cheery, voice that belies the torture that went into recording it.

Just don’t ask how long it took me to make it.