This is my cell phone.
Not quite the modern, sleek model that's so thin you can hide it under your fingernail. While it does offer a variety of ringtones, they all sound...pixel-ly. I can't surf the Internet on it, voice-activate it or take photos. I can't even enable the voice mail.
When I pull my cellphone out, it evokes comments like, "What's up, Zack Morris!" or "Put that thing away. Now." or "No wonder your purse is so heavy."
Basically, I don't qualify as a "cell phone user". This is one of those pre-paid jobbies, so I use it sparingly. People know—or should know by now—that they can't reach me on it. Among my peers, I am a telephone Luddite. Everyone I know who reads this blog—except Lauren, that dirty hippy—has a cell phone.
I will soon join "everyone." I have tried to resist, not wanting to become a slave to a cell phone as I am a slave to e-mail. I know how easy it will be to fill silence with phone conversations because it's just...easier. I know I'll become a cell-phone talking driver, despite a theoretical opposition to the practice. And I'll use call waiting, even though I hate being put on hold myself.
Dear readers, I am weak. Weak and practical. Having to find my calling card and address book to make a long distance call while knowing cell phone users hit one or two buttons gets to be frustrating. Playing perpetual phone tag with busy Katherine is disappointing.
I considered the costs. It's the same price to have a regular cell phone as it is to have my land line and pre-paid cell phone. Plus I have free calls to other Verizon users—i.e. just about everyone I'd be calling.
And, oh yeah, I can program different ringtones for different people. I've already started thinking about who gets what song. (Unfortunately, I doubt the song Parents are People from "Free to Be You and Me" will be among the options. But that would've been
So I will soon join the ranks of 10-year olds everywhere by becoming a new cell phone user. Stay tuned.