The cell phone is dead; long live the cell phone.

This week I found my cell phone in the bottom of my purse clutching a tiny empty bottle of Valium and displaying the text message GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD.  Rest in peace, valiant purple Motorola flip phone, and feast well in Valhalla.

So, I have to get a new cell phone, and I am facing a dilemma.  I know that the days of having a plain flip phone with number keys are over, because people keep texting me, and texting them back takes me like twenty minutes without access to a keyboard.  I am always tempted to call people back when they text me to expedite the proceedings, but then I never do, on the off chance that they are messaging me from a movie theater or a funeral.  So, I surrender.  I need a phone with letter keys.  Really, I should get an iphone.  Yet I pause at the threshold of such an acquisition, like a tremulous virgin unsure whether the man to whom she is about to give herself is the right one.

The iphone is a wondrous invention.  Ever since my husband acquired one, his patience knows no bounds.  Because of this thing, he can sit in perfect calm while I agonize for twenty minutes over whether I want the blue dress or the red one, while I get fidgety when he does the same thing with USB drives at Fry’s.  He says I should get an iphone for the tranquility of our marriage, and I agree.  So, why so much anguish and hand wringing?  I do have a reason, but it makes me sound about 200 years old.  Please loosen my corset, I feel I am about to suffer a paroxysm of the vapors.

When I am at home, I am almost never separated from the electronic teat that is my laptop.  I keep it by me even when I watch television, should I want to look something up on google or read a funny article during a commercial break.  The only time I am apart from the world’s sum of knowledge in aether form is when I leave the house.  If I get an iphone, I will lose this last disconnect.  The aether will literally be on me at all times, inescapable.  Frankly, I fear this.  There is a crotchety old lady inside me who insists that occasional boredom is good for the soul.  Perhaps she is not entirely wrong.  Why would I ever stare dreamily out the train window when I could have my nose in some engrossing app?  My husband says that an iphone would be good for my writing because I could take notes whenever and wherever an idea strikes me.  My response: but an idea will never strike me again!  I will be too busy looking at LOLcats!

So, you see my quandary.  But what quandary is that?  My fate is inevitable.  The aether reaches for me and already I feel myself swoon.

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