Call me old fashioned


I am so old I can actually remember a time when smart phones weren’t the norm. Or any cell phones for that matter.

The first time I saw a cell I was sitting in a restaurant in Beverly Hills. Not particularly fancy, but the place for perfect pasta. Over a platter of pappardelle, I observed a loud lady on my left and her lazy, languishing daughter. Both on cells, both ignoring each other.

On my right sat a boisterous businessman, busy buying bonds by phone over his bowl of bolognese.

Believe or not, ignoring his blonde bombshell of a wife.

I found it rude and annoying. “It’s just a California thing,” I muttered at the time to my husband.

But soon I found my predictions on technology trends were as bad as my predictions on presidential elections.

Within a year cells were everywhere. Even in the hands of my 14 year old daughter, after buying a prepaid version with her own money.

Life as I knew it changed that day. And not for the better.

Soon I was texting to to keep tabs on my teen. And she was fast becoming a phone addict.

Major melt downs occurred many Monday mornings after losing cells in the lake on the weekend. Or worse, watching them flush down toilets after sliding out of jean pockets.

I think she’s up to her 39th phone now in 9 years, one for every time the seasons change.

I found my own cell isn’t charging this morning and I do need to call my daughter. Maybe I’ll contact her the old fashioned way, on my land line.

That is if I can find her number.

She’s up to her 39th phone number, too.

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