Before I begin in earnest, I have to give some sort of explanation to those who have recently discovered me and my work, and the rest of you reading this, the very ones I was poking so much fun at, well, just read on. Your satisfaction awaits.
Sometime in the last 18 to 24 months I wrote and posted a blog about smartphones and how they made the people attached to them look like idiots. I took great pleasure in pointing out how women in particular had a lust for every new version that came out and would stand in line waiting for a chance to buy one. I would only do that for a reunion tour of The Beatles, which we know isn’t going to happen.
Needless to say, I was extremely honest about how it looked to me.
I merely pointed out the absurdity of having a device you couldn’t operate and the most often repeated phrase heard is “Oh no! What’d I do? Where’d it go?”
I described in painful detail how long it took one woman to tell me the time while she described all the apps and features of her phone, none of which she could pull up or manipulate. That didn’t seem to deter her, the possibility of her being able to perform a Geiger counter reading at atmospheric levels dangerous to even a Yeti far outweighed her foolishness.
That brings me around to why I am writing this particular column.
Last Friday my antiquated phone, the one where I still had to ask Sarah to connect me to the sheriff’s office, finally gave up the silicon ghost.
Already not wanting to spend the money to replace it, I had to shop for a new one and became confronted with a stark reality: I didn’t have a choice. Karma had found her way to my doorstep on this one and too much money later, I have one of my own.
It hurts on two fronts.
One, as I was standing there grimacing about what I was going to have to do, the sales girl asked if I was OK. I gave her a look a friend has described as my “Bruce Willis Look,” the one where there’s no expression that says everything. She took a step back and I explained it was just a little pain in my neck, pride, nothing more. She didn’t get it, and didn’t really need to. I knew what was coming.
Two, I would have to admit I had been putting it off on purpose, that I had many times been seen in the company of a pink and purple smartphone. I think my old phone had even begun to suspect I was stepping out.
I hate admitting to anything, would rather ask forgiveness than permission, and feel after the last three days of punishment, similar to some impossible never-ending task passed down in Roman mythology.
To all of you I made sound like an idiot, please enjoy.
For three days I was seen yelling at an inanimate object phrases similar to: “What? I didn’t type that!” Or, “OK, where did that come from?”
Or my personal favorite, as the list goes on and on, “Well, I hope that doesn’t come back to bite me,” uttered repeatedly to texts and social media posts that drifted away to some place I couldn’t even begin to find.
So, for all of you who may have waited to hear this, as you knew the day would come … I MIGHT owe you an apology.
D. C. Moody is a staff writer for The Easley Progress, The Pickens Sentinel and Powdersville Post and can be reached at email@example.com. Views expressed in this column are those of the writer only and do not represent the newspaper’s opinion.