It was just two short years ago that I took her out of the box, and my whole world changed. She was everything to me. I couldn't fall asleep without her there. I couldn't wait for other people to go away and leave me alone with her. The possibilities seemed limitless. GPS - she knew where we were - I could navigate Minneapolis even though I had never been there before! I could see a list of my voice mails and who they were from, and I could tap the one I wanted to listen to. I could have light saber duels with the campaign staff and pop digital bubble wrap. I could watch youtube videos. I could download music and apps and podcasts, right to my phone. In one heartbeat, I went from technology curmudgeon and reluctant-cell-phone-owner to addict. I entered, shy and beaming, the ranks of people who feel lost and uneasy without their phones.
I feel awful. She is still the same phone, doing the same things that made my heart palpitate in 2008. But now she sees my lips purse when I pick her up and feel how bulky she is; the corners of my mouth turn down when I can't take a flash picture. She probably overheard the little remark I made to my husband when we wanted to capture a moment with Rosco and Bagel -- that if I had the new iphone, we would always have a video camera ready. The same apps that looked shiny and bright and full of promise two short years ago now look ancient and dull, like a game of Pong. I find my thoughts lay increasingly elsewhere, anticipating the day when a newer, smaller, faster, better iphone will arrive.
I'm sorry, Snufflewumpkins.
