My Private War With Cellphones

I hate cellphones. I hate talking on a phone when I'm driving. I hate how my cellphone routinely changes its ring tone from a manly one to some sort of Tinkerbell-sounding thing. Funny too how it never goes off when I'm alone but waits until I'm standing in line with a bunch of guys at the hardware store when it decides to let me know it changed tones on me.  Really nice timing.  I hate cellphones.

I hate how cellphones interrupt without apology and at the most inconvenient times. I hate the little buttons on the side of it that I inadvertently push while opening it when I get a call. I hate having to dig for my glasses so I can read the teensy little letters and numbers on the phone so that I can decide whether or not to answer the call. I hate being interrupted when I'm deep in thought about heady topics such as the industrialization of the American farm or the national healthcare crisis or homeland security and our diminishing civil liberties or what to do if the rotisserie chicken is sold out when I get to the market. I hate cellphones.

There was a time when I liked cell phones. That was back when they weighed about twenty pounds, had gigantic numbers, and a foot-long bendable antenna. Very few people had one, but I did and that made me cool. It made me important in the eyes of others. Why else would I need to have a cellphone while having coffee at Perkins?   I'm certain other customers thought I was a very important person and that important people must need to be able to reach me in case I was needed to make some important decisions or be advised about some important developments in some important issue. Truthfully, the calls I would get in those days were usually from my wife reminding me to stop at the store to pick up some toilet paper on the way home. But no one in Perkins knew that. They all thought that I was on the phone with someone important like the Governor. Maybe even the President.

That all changed when cellphones became more affordable. Pretty soon everyone had one. When everyone has something, that something is no longer cool and its owner is no longer important. Once everyone from Grandma Moses to the teen at the local high school who was voted, “Most Likely to Remain a Hermit,” had one, the only justifiable reason for me to have a cellphone was to actually use it. That's when my enthusiasm checked out.

Pretty soon everyone that knew me in even the most remote of ways had a new cellphone. And bless their hearts, they all punched my number into their speed-dial system. Suddenly I was getting calls in the weirdest places: In meetings, on the road during rush hour, in bathrooms, in my garage, in checkout lines as I waited to purchase toilet paper. It was a nightmare.

In desperation I learned to use two important cellphone tools: The “Off” button and voice-mail. At first the benefits were marvelous but in the end, all too short-lived. The use of these tools had created two brand new problems. First of all I was missing phone calls from people that I actually wanted or needed to talk to. Secondly, I quickly realized that I had to not only listen to but actually respond to all of those voice-mails. Oh holy communication overload!

Over time my cellphone operating style evolved into something that resolved the continual state of conflict that I had been in. I stopped answering it AND rarely listened to the voice-mails that people left. This complicated and revolutionary approach to non-land line communication devices brought about an instant state of peace to my world.

Along the way I also discovered a miracle of sorts. If you don't listen to your voice-mails, they magically disappear after a couple of weeks or so. It's as if my cellphone company takes pity on me as the number of messages stack up and just wipes them out. I don't care what anyone says about them, US Cellular is my hero!

So now, as the years have passed and having left my city job and for a simpler life in the country, no one calls me anymore. No one that is except for my wife and kids and a couple of other people who understand my idiosyncrasies. These days my cellphone has evolved into nothing more than an expensive intercom system. If I'm up on the hill, which I often am, Grace can call me to ask if she can make some hot chocolate, which she often does. It has taken me nearly twenty years, but I am finally warming up to having a cellphone again. Now if I could just remember to leave it in the truck when I go into the hardware store.