My iPhone fell out of my gym bag as I headed to work out and my precious, beautiful iPhone’s corner shattered. I slapped an expensive plastic skin on it to keep it from shattering more, but the damage is done and now, even as I peck this entry out, I am reminded that working out is bad for me.
I cherish this iPhone and the sweet, unlimited data plan I was grandfathered into. I told my co-worker that I shattered my iPhone and he thought I said I broke my ankle and for a minute I thought breaking my ankle wouldn’t be so bad because my ankle will heal and my iPhone 4 will be like this until I upgrade.
But how stupid is that fleeting logic, especially since I walk everywhere and having never broken a bone on my body, how am I to say that an intact phone is worth the pain, misery and disability of a broken ankle. That is how skewed my brain is because of this magical piece of technological sorcery.
I need to know where it is at all times, even if I’m too busy to use it. I give it to Nathan so he can sit inside the grocery cart and watch Thomas the Train on YouTube and I can buy a dozen eggs without angrily crushing each white shell because a five-year-old cannot stop repeating, “Shake it in your booty butt!” But even if he’s occupied, I keep a hawkeye watch on my precious gadget because I do not trust it with a child who yells out when his baby brother cries: “I didn’t hit him!”
If you come into any champagne or Olde English 40s–I don’t judge, friend–please pour one out for my dear phone in hopes that it’ll stay with me until I can upgrade in November 2012 (!) and pour another glass out for my poor, iPhone addled brain that is so overwhelmed, it’s hard to finish a sente