ONE EVENING, ABOUT ten years ago, my phone screen lit up with a close friend's call. I was wrapping up an overdue presentation and answered to let her know I was busy and would call her back. Before I could complete or even start-my sentence, her wailing ruptured my eardrum. "This boy," she complained for the seventh time that month, "is being so hot and cold. One day, he acts like he can't live without me and the next day he withdraws like a mimosa plant." I wanted to scream right back at her. The girls had all asked her repeatedly to give up this capricious boy, but as these things go, she had persevered. Unable to bring myself to talk sense into her one more time, I calmly asked her to hold the line, called up a mutual friend, merged the two calls and continued clacking away at my keyboard, interjecting with "That's such rubbish", "No way" and "Men are the worst" as she made her way through her litany of grievances.
Half an hour later, my friend, between sniffles, thanked me for indulging her and my presentation sat completed before me on my desktop. Incredulous, I whirled around to see if anybody had witnessed my little multi-tasking miracle in motion. Nobody had; my colleagues around me had gone about their business as I unlocked my potential of being a passive pal a force that would tide me through many tricky moments in life.
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