prone on the shower floor as hot water rains down on me and I eat those Sun Chips I bought this morning at Union Station.
3:30 a.m.: how embarrassing would it be to order a bowl of room-service oatmeal right now?
GOOD NIGHT.
Maybe I should try my gnarled old hand at horror instead?
I’m Awake after Ten on a Weeknight *shivers*
Margaret Brought a New Person to Book Club *shudders*
Vacation Constipation! *chills*
hung up!
I once starred in a horror movie called I Was Caught Waiting, Alone, in a Public Place, without My Fucking Cellular Phone. I didn’t have a book or a magazine or a newspaper to distract me from the clanking glasses and hushed conversations in a hotel coffee shop, but even if I had, none of those things could hold a candle to my beloved mobile cellular radio system. My iPhone is my constant companion in this dull and irritating world.
Man, I love my phone. I love its faintly cracked screen and lightly buttered handfeel, its dodgy Bluetooth connectivity and sliver of available storage space. I wish I could pretend it has been some torrid, complicated courtship between us, or that after much cat and mouse, the two of us succumbed to our mutual attraction and decided to settle down and make an honest go of it, but I can’t. I remain in breathless pursuit, hustling to keep her both updated and paid for, connecting it to the fastest Wi-Fi speeds available, wooing her with exorbitantly priced protective cases and as many off-brand charging cords as there are outlets in my home. Yet my phone barely acknowledges that I’m alive—and that only makes me want her even more.
I was late to the technology game. I’m staring down the barrel of my fortieth year, and I bought my computer six or seven years ago. I didn’t get my first iPhone until they’d been around for years, partially because I thought, “Who needs that? I prefer to live in the real world!” Mostly, I was skeptical because the idea of walking around with a five-hundred-dollar computer in my pocket seemed ridiculous and dangerous to me. And the idea that I could somehow scrape together the money to purchase said pocket computer while also maintaining a roof over my head (read: partying all the time and paying for basic cable) was hilarious and unrealistic. I was the last dinosaur at the club sending multi-tap texts on an analog Nokia E51 with no camera.
When I finally upgraded to a smartphone several years after unsolicited selfies had taken hold of the nation, my exhausted thumbs cracked and bleeding from a decade of repeatedly jamming down the 2 key to make a letter C, I didn’t get what all the fuss was about. Okay, sure, this glowing rectangle in my bag can tell me the weather anywhere in the world at this exact moment, but who cares? But, wait, it could also figure out precisely what wrong street I’m turning down and steer me back in the right direction? And it can count how many steps I took today while saving for me all the passwords I can never remember? Please excuse me while I build a shrine to the new most important thing in my life!
I’ve read (on my phone) that we, as a nation, as a species, have a problem with cell phones. [Insert facts about the harms of cell phone usage that I am never going to research because I do not enjoy feeling like an underachiever.] But do we really? Is there actually a problem with rescuing our brains from the doldrums of sitting at a red light or from the malaise caused by having even a single second to sit alone with one’s terrible thoughts? I don’t have children; therefore I don’t have any opinions on whether electronic devices are a bad influence on the mental growth and development of a child. If you tell me they are, then I believe you. I’m sure there’s scientific evidence to prove it. And I’m positive there are doctors and licensed professionals who would attest to the deleterious effect modern technology has on the brains and interpersonal skills of adults, but hear me out. Maybe it’s worth it.
A terrible thing happened