Everywhere I go, people are gazing fixedly at their phones. It doesn’t matter if they’re out to eat with loved ones or at a summit facing the most beautiful view in the universe or touring an exhibit of priceless, never-before-seen artifacts – phones remain the focus of their attention.
Given most people’s level of interest, I must admit I’m disappointed in my phone. Once in a while I pick it up and command, “Distract me!” but it just sits there, inert. I log onto social media and declare, “Entertain me!” but my interest soon wanes. I consider clicking on news sites, but then I come to my senses. In the end, my phone and I simply stare at one another, both seeming to wonder what all the fuss is about.
Perhaps my phone is mad at me because it knows I’ve never liked phones. Many years ago, in a choking fog of resentment, I finally got my first cell phone, and I would turn it on only to make calls and turn it off as soon as they ended. My voicemail greeting was: “This is my cell phone, and it’s usually off, so please don’t leave a message. If you need to reach me, call my land line at…” But people don’t listen, so I still received voicemails, usually retrieved several days after they were left. The best ones came from my friend Carolina, who said I used my cell phone the same way her octogenarian grandfather used his. All of her voicemails started with: “Hola, Grandpa!”
So maybe that’s the answer: my phone doesn’t like me because I don’t like phones, and therefore it insists on being boring. Or maybe it’s heard me describe it as a not-so-smart phone, and that hurt its phoney little feelings. Whatever the reason, it seems phone fascination is not for me. But that’s okay. Everyone’s different. I don’t understand most people’s attachment to their phones, and most people don’t understand my obsession with mushroom photo shoots.