How do you survive without a cell phone?
Anyone else feel like their mini computer (that also acts as an old fashioned voice-to-voice communication device) may as well be a required apparatus for existence these days?
If you don’t, I envy you. My cell phone is somewhere in No Man’s Land. I have been without it for a whopping 84 hours at this point and I feel isolated (which makes that a first world problem, how basic can I get?) and out of sorts with life. I slept on the couch when I realized my one digital alarm clock I still own no longer worked, setting the oven timer to awake me from a semi-sleep for work (you know the kind of sleep where you don’t sleep because you are worried that you will over sleep, so you can’t sleep).
That nifty “find your phone” app only works when your cell phone is alive and kicking. Mine is unequivocally deceased.
Thankfully (or maybe forcefully), I committed to
Apple a company of technology products that allows me the capacity to receive text messages to my computer. Realizing my phone was gone, I was able to message my folks on Facebook, letting them know I was still in the Mini Manse with the Pussy Posse.
I haven’t ever had much luck with technology (I took a hammer to a Canon printer in college after it failed the 1,734,902 time I was trying to print a paper. The hammer was therein referred to as “Canon Killer”).
Upon getting my first cell phone, it was simply a new means of applied science for which I could fail. There was the time my phone accidentally got ran over by a boyfriend picking me up for supper.
And the time I lost a fucking phone in the Mini Manse (where it has yet to be recovered). I retraced every single high-heeled step from the prior night (knowing it was in the manse because I’d ordered a pizza upon arrival home), morphing into a Tasmanian devil tearing the Mini Manse apart. After five hours of scouring my trash cans, kitchen, bathroom and bedroom drawers, couch cushions, the piano, under the bed, in the freezer, through dirty laundry, in the pussies food bowls, behind every piece of furniture under the roof, outside of the balcony AND through my car, I looked like a deranged lunatic in dire need of a bottle of booze.
Another phone debacle took place when my phone screen literally faded to black, therefore staying connected to WiFi, enabling me to communicate through my iWatch but unable to use the device. I looked like I was in a perpetual play state of FBI agent.
Once again, I was relegated to the old fashioned phone cord plugged into a wall piece of equipment that’s utterly foreign to many peeps today.
Upon realization I played David Copperfield with yet another cell phone this weekend, I unsuccessfully retraced steps, places, nooks and crannies in Music City. WHAT. THE. FUCK. was I going to do?!
How would I capture the every day beauty of my pussies?
How would I document my uneventful weekend debauchery?
What if the Iowa twins wanted to FaceTime during my seconds, minutes, hours, days without a device?!
Whatever would I use to pull up a photo of the actor who played Alf’s dad to compare to people who look like Scooby?
How in the fuck would I paint my lipstick on (at the fucking table – yes, I have the audacity) without using my cell as a mirror?
The agony of feeling so helpless with the scenarios that I missed capturing with every waking second was almost unbearable (I mean, my ultra, beyond dramatic side could be showing its ass). And then, I received my new phone today right around noon.
Eighty four hours after a true first world nightmare.
This was an early Christmas miracle, indeed.