After a two month long struggle with poor reception, I finally put my cell phone to sleep last night. It was a bittersweet day, filled with both pain and excitement, plus an underlining fear that my phone book would be lost in some digital
We had a May-December relationship for sure. After a collegiate cycle of cellular bliss, I lost my first phone, #1, in a snow pile while loading a beer truck into the Jammys. I finally settled on a replacement, #2, only to have a somewhat confused Penn Station patron reunite me with #1 just three weeks later. #1 and I spent one final night together, before I banished her to the attic like Edward Rochester's first wife in Jane Eyre and spent the next 21 months (that's 62 in cell phone years) caring for #2 as if she were an extension of my right ear.
In our 22 months together, my cell phone and I survived a lifetime: a head on coalition with the sidewalk, two trips to Bonnaroo and, during one ten day period, no less than 57 text messages from a particularly psychotic member of my crazy girl harem. I'll hold off until sundown to light a yartzeit candle, but, for now, I'd like to formally introduce you to my new cell phone, #3. She comes with expanded media capabilities so expect regular Greenhaus Effect photo updates, plus, I'm sure, a higher monthly phone bill.