My relationship with my phone, my smartphone (Yes, I still have a landline.), is love-hate. I do cringe when the phone rings. If I have to make an actual call, I am filled with dread. But, I still love it, well, I love the data to be exact.
I’m a data junkie. I’m not in that top 1% that AT&T once ruthlessly blocked, but I’d surely be worse if I wasn’t on a budget. When I’m on my phone, I’m checking the weather, my reminders, Facebook, Twitter, Google+, Pinterest or my WordPress stats. I’m taking and sharing photos and videos, telling people what I’m watching via GetGlue, or creating this week’s grocery list. On rare occasions I’m listening to music or watching TV on my phone. It wakes me up in the morning via the dulcet tones of a harp or Donghae’s charmingly cheerful “Good Morning!” It’s my lifeline–keeping me on track, on schedule, in-the-know, or entertained if endlessly I’m waiting somewhere. (Okay fine. Ten minutes isn’t endless.) My phone allows me to boast that I’m the Queen of Bejeweled Blitz. (Yeah, no one else is buying that either.)
Right before the Super Bowl started, I was trading a lot of taunting texts with several people and one friend, before I could respond to his text, called. You would have thought I’d gotten electrocuted. I dropped the phone. As I stared at the throbbing slide to answer bar, my left brained screamed, “Nooo, don’t call!” while my right brain gasped, “Thank God it hit the sofa and not the hardwoods.”
My smartphone is pretty much with me everywhere. Text me, Tweet @ me, email me, IM me, but just don’t call me!!