The smartphone DTs, or, I have become what I hated

Among the many valid complaints my husband has about me is the fact that I am terrible with cell phones. Over the last, what, 12 years or so that I’ve owned a cell phone (we were late adopters) I have owned exactly one – ONE – long enough that it needed to be replaced, and that one limped to the finish line missing its back plate. I have dropped them in public park toilets, fried them on the train’s third rail, left them in taxis. One glorious time I left one in a winter coat pocket near the end of the season and didn’t find it until the following winter – and it still worked, so I kept it as a backup for the shiny new phone I got after I thought I lost that one. Shortly after re-finding the old one, I lost the new one. Clearly, I can’t have nice things.

That is the reason I resisted buying a smart phone – I can’t be trusted with them. Why drop real money on something I was bound to lose in some pathetic fashion on the way home from the AT&T store? So, I contented myself with bargain-basement flip phones and shit as long as possible. But I bogarted my husband’s iPhone all the time, to the point where the browser had my Facebook and email passwords in its memory. Still, I would rag on him mercilessly for always having his face jammed into the all-powerful iPhone anyway. I would sniff about how, unlike him, I paid attention to the really important things in life, like our family and friends and trees and flowers and crap. That’s just who I am, you know? A better person than everyone else, that’s me. Anyway, when my last shitty phone was on its way out (partially due to my stumbling into the house epically drunk and dropping it, causing the backplate to pop off and somehow disappear into the ether) I decided I had proven to myself that I was worthy enough of owning one nice thing. So, I bought a mid-range smartphone and immediately downloaded Candy Crush. By the end of the first week of smartphone ownership, my neck was sore and I was developing a mighty smartphone hump. Turns out I’m as much of a jag as the rest of the world. Shut up, kid, Mama’s ninjaing some important dragonfruit right now. I’ll look at your head wound later.

So it was that this Wednesday, I left my phone at home for the first time since owning it. I realized I’d left it behind while en route to dropping my daughter off at school and briefly considered going back for it, but I told myself that it would be dumb, given that I sit in front of a PC and next to a phone all day. I existed for years without it, one day should be a cakewalk, right?

8:05 am: drop the kids off at school a little earlier than usual. Do I have time to stop at the store before heading into work? Sure – what was that thing I needed to pick up? Let my check my phone’s notepad – aw, shit.

8:20 am: sit down at my desk and log in. Spotify pops up. Hey, what was that song I heard in the car on the way here? I Shazamed it the other day…let my check my pho – aw, shit.

10:10 am: Ooh, my son would love this Let’s Not Meet story on Reddit – I should text him the link – aw, shit.

1:00 pm: at the gym and feel triumph at finally remembering to put headphones in my gym bag the night before. Now I can listen to music on my…aw, shit.

2:30 pm:  hm, what should I make for dinner tonight, since my daughter’s piano lesson is going to mean a later dinnertime? I’ll text Pet…aw, shit.

4:00 pm: did we change the time of the piano lesson tonight? Let me check my texts…aw, shit.

5:15 pm: drop daughter off at piano lesson across the street from the grocery store. Can’t remember what’s on my grocery list without my phone but maybe going through the aisles will jog my memory.

5:30 pm: nnnnope.

5:45 pm: whatever, I bought some shit we don’t need and am checking out anyway. And now I have fifteen minutes to kill, so I can just sit in the café and play some Candy Cr—SON OF A BITCH DICKBAG COCKLEBUTTS

6:20 pm: rush into the house, drop groceries everywhere, run to embrace my phone and promise it – I SWEAR TO YOU PHONE – I will never, ever leave it behind again. Unlike my daughter, which might be why her piano teacher keeps calling. Whatever.

Posted in Modern Life, People Who Suck
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