Yes, a cell phone is convenient—when I want to use it. But I have so many reasons to hate it. For example, if I want to make a point to a caller, I can’t slam it down in a huff, because I have to turn it off first and find a surface soft enough not to break the expensive item. (I’ve cooled off by then, ruining my mad.) Then there’s the dial tone that isn’t there. How am I supposed to know the gizmo is ready to use? I guess I add that to my long list of things I take on faith. Plus the caller I.D. that I got used to on my land-line—my cell gives me numbers for the most part rather than names, and I don’t have everyone’s number memorized so I’ll recognize it. How can I avoid Great Aunt Maud’s 15th call of the day if I don’t know it’s her? (Okay, I’ll start memorizing or putting the entire phone book into Contacts.) Because the cell is always with me, I can’t say I was away from the phone—I’ve lost my excuse not to answer.
What’s worse, my cell has a demon living inside it, one that likes to jump out of my pocket, phone attached, and go for a swim in the toilet or bury himself and the phone deep in my purse just before “Ode to Joy” signals an incoming call.
Then there’s the issue of having it always with me—a practice that society demands—meaning that I’m never, ever alone (hands in dishwater or filled with mail to sort, when the main character is about to try to escape, getting romantic, relaxing on the toilet…).
I really DO hate my cell phone. I just wish I could live without it.