Friday, March 25, 2011


I've lived without my cellphone for a week. I'm not sure how I did it. Three missed phone calls, one from my youngest sister who was offended I wasn't calling her back. 25 missed text messages. Lots of emailing back and forth to organize life. It was bizarre.

The loss itself was humbling. I had just panicked, believing that I had left my phone in another professor's office while waiting to meet with my honors adviser. I ascertained that I still had possession of the phone, relieved, when Janet Lyon told me we could talk. I must have put it down right at that moment and not in my bags like I should have. Instead, it sat for a week on a black book shelf that I had been perusing. Black phone. Black shelf. You couldn't see it unless you were looking for it. Janet wasn't in her office for the next week. I hoped it was there. I prayed it was there. I didn't want to have to make myself a facebook group asking for numbers.

I think I'm supposed to say now that I was better for the experience. Actually, I spent a week in heightened anxiety because I couldn't call my sister whenever I wanted to say random things. And believing as I did that the world would end without me being in contact with it via text messages, let me just tell you how frightening and dark a time it was.

I am, sadly, not joking. I may be ironic, but I am not kidding when I say I suffered deep anxiety because my phone was missing.

Embarrassing. Completely.

I'm not sure how I feel about it (other than the embarrassment). I'm thinking about trying to talk myself out of the feeling with some great points about how phones enable communication and ease. How they are part and parcel of how our worlds work, so it isn't a bad thing that I missed it. How it would have been much better in the end to not get all those texts I missed, the euchre game,

But I don't actually believe it.

One thing I do not regret: For a week, I never opened my phone and texted while I was standing with someone else.

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