Friends wonder why I still don’t have a smart phone. I explain it like this: I have a computer, a cell phone (one notch above a flip phone) and an answering machine at the house. Like an old mama dog with a litter of pups, I don’t need something else to feed.
There’s a term used for describing these folks, but it’s not very easy to say. Smombies. Smart phone zombies.
I’ve heard that in some places, so many pedestrians are staring down at their phones and not paying attention to traffic lights, the cities have installed new traffic lights in the pavement so people won’t miss them. There’s a term used for describing these folks, but it’s not very easy to say. Smombies. Smart phone zombies.
Smart phone-free zone
Smart phones take a prominent place even at dinner tables—invited or not. Dining with folks inside my home and out, I’ve asked a question and had someone whip out a smartphone to look up the answer faster than Matt Dillon drew his gun. Our free-flowing conversation stops and downsizes into a box the size of your hand.
They find the answer, but some go a step further and stick their phone in my face. I act interested, and most of the time I am. But I prefer looking into faces, not phones—chewing the fat for a while, not knowing the answer. Not instantly anyway.
A lot of times, after I’ve looked at the phone, it’s passed around the table like bread. But that’s still not always the end of it. Something else comes up in our conversation, and, before you can say diddly-squat, I’m back to staring at someone’s screen again, looking at a stream of photographs, running like ticker tape. It’s not that I don’t care; it’s just that when it comes to watching something close to home movies, I’d like to have a choice on the viewing time.
She was so right, too. In a very smart, smartphone world, I’m definitely an UN-Cola.
A few years back, I was supposed to be at a dinner party with friends, but, instead, I ended up in bed that night fighting the flu. When the merry making grew merrier, my friends gave me a call from the party. The gesture touched me. By speakerphone, we gabbed all at once until finally, one of them suggested that I give her my cell number. “I’ll send you some pictures!” she said. I hesitated, feeling embarrassed. “You have a smartphone, right?” she asked next.
But before I could answer (no), my friend Sissy, who knows me better than the others, jumped in. “Oh Katie is soooo UN smart,” she said. It might have sounded stinging, but I laughed, knowing exactly what she meant . . . like calling a 7-UP the UN-Cola.
She was so right, too. In a very smart, smart phone world, I’m definitely an UN-Cola.
Even now, as smart phones, iPhones, etc., multiply faster than hairs on my chin, I’m a UN. I couldn’t tell you the difference between a smart phone and an iPhone. What is the difference anyway?
I know I’d be smarter if I used one, but I’d be less alive in the present, too.
Keeping it old school
If you think I’m a technological curmudgeon, you’re right. I write with pencils on large yellow notepads, and I use a hand-cranked pencil sharpener (strangely pleasing). I’m the proud owner of an IBM Selectric II typewriter, a 40 pounder, and it works just fine thank you. Not so long ago, I loaned it to another UN-Cola, feeling glad to have a compatriot. I’m not sure why I’ve kept it, really—I haven’t used it for any serious writing in years. But I just like having the big ole bulky thing around. Seeing a machine that works manually, in a way I can understand, reminds me of sweeter times. Just remembering that tick, tick, tick, ding makes me happier.
Who knows? Maybe someday I’ll work up enough interest in a smart phone and just go out and buy the cursed thing. I’ll call family and friends from my spanking new smart phone and give them all a shock. I’ll freak them out even more if I send a text. (Okay, I’m learning).
I know I’d be smarter if I used one, but I’d be less alive in the present, too.
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