An Open Love Letter to My Cellphone
Dear Cellphone, We've been together, what is it, two years now? Yes, almost two years have passed since I spied you on the shelf in the mall kiosk and finally shelled out for the data plan because I knew in my heart that you were the one.
It's been a wild ride, my sweet. I remember that one moment when I was running across the road. I'd tucked you in the pocket of my hoodie, and as I hopped through puddles, out you flew, skittering across the concrete. I thought I'd lost you forever.
I learned my lesson that day, as my heart shattered into as many pieces as I feared your screen had.
When I realized you were no worse for the wear, but there was a rather large chunk of plastic missing from that cheap made-in-China, bought off eBay because it made me laugh case, I made amends. Your new case cost me more than my last winter parka.
I would have gone higher. Much higher. You are too dear to me to be lost in a silly game of get out of the rain quickly.
After all, who knows me like you do? Who else would know that when I type "tahnskvig", I really mean "Thanksgiving"? Who but you would understand my aching desire for constant adulation and make a loud noise every time someone writes on my Facebook wall?
You even get my sense of humor, oh Cellphone. Like the need to photograph every payphone I find along the way. You know I'm not being disloyal. Just ironic. Even if it's just between us. We're good like that.
And when I have wasted too many hours playing the "Where's My Perry" game that I downloaded for my 7-year-old, you know exactly what I need: a suggestion that I upgrade to the 99-cent version. No judgment. Just a shoulder to lean on and more of my drug of choice.
Cellphone, I tell people my husband is my best friend, but in my heart of hearts, even I know I'm lying. Can he keep track of my shopping list and give me directions to the nearest Target from anywhere? You know he can't. You, on the other hand, well, darling, do I really need to say it?
You make it possible to answer work emails while I'm getting a pedicure. You give me an excuse not to talk to that guy with the smelly breath on the bus. You let me pretend I'm caught up in a conversation when that weird guy who insists he knows me tries to talk to me in the supermarket.
And so, I wait, with bated breath, my love, for the moment when I can whisk you away from your charger and return you to your rightful place in my hands.
Forever Yours (or at least until my contract is up and I can upgrade),
A Woman Strong Enough to Admit She Has an Unhealthy Obsession With Her Cellphone
Be honest with yourself, are you a little bit in love with your cellphone?
Image via epSos.de/Flickr
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