My
phone broke down to the point where the repairman worked in it for free because
it was “an interesting challenge.” If my phone were a patient in the ER then
this would’ve been one of those “would you mind if we bring in some interns to
watch?” situations.
So,
I went through the stages of phone grief, but I did it in the wrong order.
First came denial, So what if it randomly
shuts down and won’t turn back on? Next came depression, I guess I’ll just have to live with a broken
phone forever. Then bargaining, Maybe
the repair guys can fix it.
(P.S.
If you google “stages of g—.” Then Google will helpfully supply you with the
stages of genital herpes. That’s what I get for being too lazy to spell out ‘grief.’)
You’ll
notice that I skipped a step: Anger.
The
new phone arrived all shiny and new. My husband knows that changes in my routine
turn me into a fussy old lady who viciously attacks the landlord for telling
her that she can only have eight cats in her apartment. No way am I getting rid
of Mr. Snuffles.
So
my husband kindly activated my phone for me and downloaded a few apps. He
offered it to me like a priest throwing a sheep into an active volcano, hoping
desperately that the sacrifice will placate the roiling lava monster.
No
amount of sheep will fix this.
The
SD card didn’t have enough room for all of my apps. The phone only does about
60% of the things I need it to do. The calendar widget isn’t showing up. My
voicemail perpetually reminds me that I have messages even though the mailbox
is empty. The keyboard doesn’t even let me swipe yet so I have to pound. each. individual.
letter. one. by. one.
 |
| The Devil |
It’s
as if someone tore out all the pages to my planner, hid the books in my library,
stole the pictures of my baby, and then demanded another forty bucks before
they’d let me clean up the mess.
My
rage is entirely disproportionate to the size of the problem. A bigger SD card
will fix the problem. In a month I’ll finally finish entering my passwords into
each app and confirming each account. They’ll all be neatly organized just as
they once were. At that point I wouldn't want a new phone; in fact I'd probably fight you if you tried to replace it with a better one.
I’ll
experience the final stage of phone grief: Acceptance.
