What can I say, I like to talk
So I'm going to catch a train--a train that, naturally, I'm running about 3 minutes late for and subsequently miss--when I realize I can't find my cell phone. I rifle through my monstrosity of a bag, then full-on dump it everywhere, and still no phone. I have no clue where it is. It could be sitting on my bathroom sink, on the hood of my car, in the hands of some nosy, nosy girl who now is reading all of my text messages and posting them on her blog, I HAVE NO CLUE.
This is a very big problem. I never leave my house without my cell phone. I mean, practically almost never. I am supposed to be meeting my brother. I am not going to be home the rest of the day. You know those people who are like, my cell phone died for, like, five hours the other day, and it was so great, so nice and peaceful, I didn't miss having a phone at all? You may be one of those people, in which case I tip my LED screen to you, but I AM NOT. I was very, very late to the cell phone party, but now that I am here, you will have to drag me kicking and screaming out the door after all the balloons have popped and streamers have been kicked around and everyone else is long gone. I NEED TO HAVE MY PHONE.
At the moment, though, I just need to figure out how to tell my brother that he is not going to be able to call or text me to find out where to meet me. I dig back, way, way back into the recesses of my brain, to try to remember HOW ON EARTH people communicated before cell phones. I could send him a letter ... too slow. I could send a pigeon ... I don't trust them, they poop a lot and I think they have little brains. Pay phone ... pretty sure those no longer exist. Email ... oh, yeah, no computer.
I am seriously--I wish I were kidding--considering trying to telepathically send him a message when I end up borrowing someone else's cell phone. A much fancier, much more technologically advanced cell phone than mine, a phone I can barely figure out how to talk on, let alone dial. And then we run into the other problem: I don't know his number. I don't know ANYONE'S number. I used to be the queen of remembering people's numbers, back in the dark ages of rotary phones and horse-drawn carriages, but who needs to memorize phone numbers when they can just be programmed in? When that valuable real estate in my brain can be turned over to memorizing the Jolie-Pitts' middle names and birth dates instead? Not me, no way.
After a minute or two, during which time the cell phone lender gives me several strange looks and very nearly snatches the thing right back out of my hands, I come up with my mom's number. I call her and ask her to relay the message.
Meanwhile, across the aisle from me, two teenagers are refusing to pay their train fare and the ticket collector is threatening to call the cops. The lady in front of them turns around and begs them to reconsider.
Lady: Pay them! They'll take you to jail!
Punk kid (sullenly): For what.
Lady: They'll take you to the blue pen! You don't want to go there. Trust me. I've been there.
Punk kid glares.
Lady: And it's a weekend, too, you won't see a judge til Monday. (Cackles.) I've been locked up lots of times, I know.
The train slows down, and the kids get ready to make a break for it.
Lady: Run! Run!
The train stops, but the doors don't open. Instead, we are informed that there will be a slight delay while we wait for police assistance. This is spectacular. There will be a riot two feet away from me over $5.25 train fares and I DON'T HAVE A PHONE.
That is basically the theme for the rest of the day: I DON'T HAVE A PHONE. My brother sending a text, the teenage girl gabbing on her hot pink Razr, the guy looking something up on his BlackBerry--they are ALL mocking me because they have phones and I DON'T.
I know it's neurotic. I KNOW. But I'll tell you what, when I came home to find my phone sitting primly on the kitchen counter, right next to the charger, I hugged it and kissed it and swore that, Verizon as my witness, I'd never leave it again.