Do I really need a cell phone?
I have been asking myself this question for months and have concluded that I do, for one very compelling reason: Everyone else has one. No, seriously, I need a cell phone in case of emergencies. So a couple of weeks ago, I got one.
See, my daughter just started kindergarten and I’m worried about her being gone all day. I keep having visions of her frolicking on the playground and then falling into a mineshaft or getting charged by a rogue rhinoceros.
Granted, the closest most people get to using their phones for an emergency is when they call home from the freezer aisle to report that the store is all out of Chunky Monkey. But even if nothing does go wrong, I’ve found another good reason to carry a cell phone: It makes me look cool.
Like most newer cell phones, this one is silver and impossibly tiny. I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced having a serious conversation (“Stay calm. Everything’s going to be all right. I’ll get Heath Bar Crunch instead”), and it looked like I was trying to wedge a Zippo lighter in my ear. That’s awesome. It’s well documented that the smaller your phone is, the cooler you are.
And using one makes people admire you. For instance, I used to drive erratically while holding a coffee cup with one hand and finding my favorite CD with the other. Now I can run stoplights the hip way: by chattering away on my cell phone. Drivers who flip me off do so with respect because I am obviously important. I glance back at them dismissively with a look that says, don’t bother me; I’m on my cell.
I used to waste my time in the supermarket checkout line by reading tabloid headlines and wondering, for instance, if Britney Spears really does have cellulite. What a goober, huh? Now I can whip out my phone and make a call, sometimes turning away from the other customers as if I actually want privacy, sometimes talking right out loud as if no one around me matters at all. I love being chic.
I don’t have a broker to contact, but I have friends who are flattered that I would get in touch with them right in the middle of my errands. I say things that impress the other shoppers, such as: “Hey, it’s me. Guess what? I’m in the grocery store! Yeah, I totally am.”
I have given my phone number to dozens of people, many of them total strangers. None of them have called me, but only because they’re all really busy. And that’s okay, because I don’t know how to answer the phone.
I’ve spent days figuring out how to program it and I’ve barely tapped its capabilities. Apparently you can not only call people but also send text messages, whatever those are. According to the manual, the phone has a wide selection of ring tones and plays games. Heck, it even responds to voice commands, which is more than you can say for our children.
Actually, it’s not true that no one has called me. The display indicates I’ve had three missed calls. (Hey, stylishly microscopic phones are easy to lose now and then.)
After a week of fiddling with the buttons, I finally figured out who the calls were from. One friend, it turns out, even left an urgent voice mail message that I retrieved six days later: “Hey, Jess. It’s 4:15 on Tuesday and you called me but you didn’t leave a message. If it’s important, call me back.” Vital communiqués like this make you wonder how people survived before wireless.
On that day, I had been programming my speed dial. I must have accidentally placed the call, which is the kind of thing that happens when your phone’s buttons are the size of poppy seeds.
If you’ve got my cell number, I’d really appreciate a call so I can learn how to answer. But if it’s an emergency—like if you see any large, fierce animals wandering around the school playground—you’d better leave a message on my home phone.
Or wave me down in town. I’ll be the driver casually sideswiping parked cars while pushing a Zippo, ever so fashionably, into my ear.
