The reality of my retirement is that I am either incredibly productive or accomplish nothing. This week was no different. On my manic cleaning day, I unburied a letter that had been sitting on a side table for weeks. I remember it arriving in the mail, but I tossed it off to the side. Opening the envelope, I discovered that our CD was coming due … that day. I needed to contact our out-of-state credit union to choose the most favorable terms.

“Hello,” a sultry male voice answered my call. That was a first; usually, I spoke to sweet older ladies.

“Hello, I’m calling about –“

“I knew you’d call,” he replied.

Wow, I thought. They must automatically connect my phone number to my account.

“So, you know that I –“

“Yes, I know what you like,” he reassured me.

“I’d like to renew my CD; I’d like to know my options.”

“For options, I can forward you to our menu or I can talk with you, honey. I’m sure I can meet your needs.”

“Honey?” My credit union has great customer service but has never been this friendly.

“From your website, I see you have an 11-month special rate,” I began again.

“I don’t understand your request. I am sure you will achieve satisfaction by choosing one of our specialties from our menu.”

The awkward phrasing was a dead giveaway: I was interacting with AI. “I would like –“ but my words were cut short by the menu itself.

The choices recited were (how do I say this?) … spicy. These were definitely not interest rates and terms. I’m not even sure exactly what was being offered, but I know it wasn’t what I was looking for. In a panic, I hung up.

Red-faced, I stared at my cell phone. OK, so I had accidentally dialed a virtual sex service. But how? I studied the statement from the credit union and compared the phone number to what I had dialed. They didn’t match. Well, that was obvious. Studying the paper again, I discovered I had switched the last digits of the phone number with the plus-four digits of the zip code.

Still blushing, I placed the call to the credit union again. Tracing the digits with my finger as I recited them, I wanted to guarantee that I wouldn’t make the same mistake. The other phone rang, and a person picked up. This time there wasn’t a sexy male voice, only Marjorie, a helpful middle-aged-sounding woman. The financial transaction took place in less time than it took me to figure out that I had reached a wrong number.

I’ll admit that I giggled about the misdialed call all afternoon. Not only was it an erotic site, but it was AI-generated. How weird was that?

When Bill got home from work, I couldn’t wait to tell him my tale. I had replayed the conversation so many times in my head that I was able to burst into a full-blown dramatic reenactment. My performance was Oscar-worthy; I had the voices down, talked on an “air phone,” and mimicked my facial expressions. Only when I reached the end of my story did I notice that Bill was not an attentive audience. In fact, he was reading the paper.

“Did you hear a word I said?” I asked.

“Sure,” he answered.

“And? Don’t you have any reaction?”

“Yeah,” Bill said while looking up and shaking his head. “I wonder how much that phone call is going to cost.”