Talking pants pocket

“Bob?”
NOW WHAT?!
A semi-familiar voice was emanating loudly from my right-rear pants pocket.
Must be my cellphone, which I keep in that pocket.
Seconds ago I hung up a call from Urology Associates of Rochester, which I fielded a half-hour earlier, because wondrous technology decided I never hung up — like I didn’t swipe the hang-up icon hard enough.
I guess — ya never know with these things.
At which point Urology Associates of Rochester kept blabbering their introductory recording at me.
Which I finally stopped a half-hour later when I heard it from my pants pocket.
“Are you all right?”
My caller-ID said it was Cheryl Anne Brewer, my aquatic-therapy coach at the YMCA.
“This one a’ them butt calls?” I asked.
I never called Cheryl Anne, or at least didn’t intend to.
Cheryl Anne had just e-mailed a response to my e-mail about future appointments.
Her card had appointments scheduled next week, when I had appointments galore, and was also gonna be outta-town.
Regrettably I wouldn’t be able to continue therapy until the following week. Her e-mail rescheduled to that.
So now, to her, my butt call seemed follow-up to her e-mail.
I guess I don’t have the proper attitude. I consider things like this to be foul-ups instead of blessings.
I hope Cheryl Anne doesn’t think I’m crazy, although at my age I suppose that’s plausible.
Part of it is the sheer madness my iPhone keeps lobbing at me. I guess I’m from the wrong generation.
So how did I inadvertently call Cheryl Anne?
Butt calls are history, or so it seems.
I decided I never put my phone to sleep before putting it back in my pocket.
It was on “recent calls,” one of which was Cheryl Anne.
So if I breathed on it — whatever — it could call Cheryl Anne while inserting in my pants pocket.

• Almost a year ago I had a complete knee replacement, and it seems my balance has degraded since — or before. We started aquatic therapy (in the YMCA pool) about two weeks ago, hoping to reverse that.