As love affairs with cell phones go, the one I am about to describe is epic. Not that I’m the only person ever to become enamored with his or her smartphone—because I’m not. Plenty of idiots like me cling to their dear Droids and BlackBerries, inextricably fused to the deliciousness of those handheld wonders and to the epitome of shameless egocentrism. It’s just that I have trouble wrapping my head around the hideous nature of my fixation.
And by hideous, I mean that it is both appalling and unhealthy, never mind indefensible. Indeed, those with whom I reside will readily attest: “Mom, it’s like you have a crush on your phone or something. I seriously think you need an intervention—or possibly a better hobby.”
Case in point: In the dark of predawn, I abandon the warmth of my bed and stumble across the room, drawn to the soft glow of my beloved phone—a moth to flame. As if nothing else mattered, I scan breaking news from a never-ending stream of sources, devour the latest nuggets of idiocy on Twitter, check my email and, of course, peruse the Facebook statuses of 300 of my closest friends. Admittedly, I’ve got a problem.
Oddly enough, just a few short months ago I mocked those who appeared to be tethered to their precious devices—i.e. the people who routinely careen into oak trees and ill-fated produce towers while attempting to walk and text at the same time. The cool and detached who no longer engage in meaningful, face-to-face conversations, preferring instead the wit and wisdom of Siri, who understands them more completely anyway. Dweebs who have the audacity to sit across from one another in a café (or the same cussed living room), maniacally tapping screens and peering into their palms as if they each held a tiny, companionable wizard—which is disturbingly close to reality, now that I think about it.
Ironically, I’ve become one of those people—ever-so-smitten with my iPhone, unable to resist its wily charms and perfectly debilitated by its consuming allure. Never before did I imagine a fascination or dependency so profound. With each passing day, it lures me deeper and deeper into the tangled wood of its enchanted forest. Good thing I’m equipped with a state-of-the-art GPS and a user-friendly navigation app I downloaded for free.
At any rate, I cannot deny my crippling obsession with the aforementioned gadgetry, nor can I refute the fact that I feel naked without it. Especially in the shower. Despite my best efforts to prevent it from seeping into every corner of my life, it has become my muse, my constant companion, the yang to my yin.
My husband, by contrast, tends to regard it as a) a disease, b) the pure embodiment of Lucifer, and c) a tech-inspired monstrosity he would gleefully launch into the stratosphere if he had his druthers.
Clearly, the man doesn’t understand the bond my phone and I share or how said device “completes me” (and my sentences if need be). Nor could he possibly grasp the deep and abiding love I have for iTunes…and iCalendar…and word games, or how patently delirious I was when I first discovered Instagram or that I could look up inane facts involving the lifespan of headless cockroaches WHILE listening to Zeppelin AND using the built-in alarm to remind me to haul my brood to the soccer field. Likewise, he couldn’t begin to recognize the delectable nature of speech bubbles or why I smile each time my kids iMessage me. Moreover, I think FaceTime frightens him.
Indeed, it’s a complicated sort of relationship—one that my dear husband will probably never fully appreciate. He doesn’t care that I spent an inordinate chunk of time learning how to properly waggle my phone, that I googled an embarrassment of app-related tutorials in order to become minimally functional or that I endured countless sessions with my tech-savvy charges who found me “impossible to work with.”
In the end, I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’m still crazy for my iPhone.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live, wooed beyond comprehension. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom and now www.Instagram.com/PlanetMomPics.
Copyright 2013 Melinda L. Wentzel
5 responses to “Call Me Crazy: Crazy for My iPhone”
Oh my gee…couldn’t say anything but laugh here! This is almost me, but it’s good to know that there were thousands of us. My husband would address my iPhone as “my boyfriend”. Like when we were sitting in the couch and I am holding my “best friend” (that’s how I would call it), he would tease me for cheating on him! LOL
Thanks for sharing. xoxo
I had a Blackberry and got my iPhone last summer. I am addicted and it is somewhat absorbing but i see the same with the kids i teach it is a transformation of our society – a return to adolescence where the center of the universe is …. me. I got my wife an iPhone for her birthday and she grudgingly made the transition from Motorola Razor to smartphone, but she still snaps “I don;t live with my phone!” when i ask if she read the e-mail or message I sent. thanks for sharing what I think.. have a wonderful day.
I am so glad to find you again in the weekly webb. When your twins were little I used to get such a good laugh from your column! I really missed you!
Helen: It’s good to be back…and even better to learn that someone missed me. 🙂
Couldn’t agree with you more, Melinda. I came to it from a flip phone I clearly held onto too long. Apart from the ability to check my email, stock prices or baseball scores, I’ve really taken advantage of the camera. It has led to me making art again – I take pictures of pavement. (crickets). No really. I turn those pics into abstract art. It used to be, I would load those pics into my MacBook and then boost saturation etc. via I-photo. Now, all photo editing mostly happens inside the phone – via an app called ‘Snapfish’. You can see this on my new WordPress blog, Shoulda Coulda Buddha.