When you finally recover your cell phone and listen to your messages, please disregard the one from me. You see, when I got the message from Mom that said, “I can’t find Megan. She’s not answering her phone. I can’t get in touch with [her boyfriend] either. Have you heard from her? Call me,” I panicked. She was, of course, calling from California, and some quick math told me she had called me at 7 a.m. Pacific time, so I assumed the worst. The last time I talked with you, you were on your way to Boyfriend’s apartment to watch the Redskins game; that was two days ago. All kinds of thoughts went through my head. You know how I am. So please don’t be upset by my tone. I was in a workshop that was being led by an incompetent presenter with no command whatsover of subject-verb agreement, so my mood was already sullied. And really, I would never actually drive up there and kick your ass. That was just a…a figure of speech. Yes. So, uh, sorry about that message, and I’m glad you’re okay. Oh, and give me a call. At your convenience, of course–no rush!