The inevitable often creeps up on you. I just posted about my immient cell phone purchase, and now I've already gone out and bought one. I denied my, uh, readership delicious anticipation. Well, deal with it, because now I can text message.
Texting is fairly awkward, though, for someone who can type 70 WPM. I also keep wanting to navigate my phone with a computer mouse, but it's never there. Maybe someday.
It's with a certain amount of sadness, however, that I will give up my land line. My heritage is dependent upon the telephone. By heritage I mean my dad has worked for the phone company for over 30 years. I grew up in a house with a phone in about every room. On the first floor, which contains four rooms, there are four phones. Currently, in the living room, my parents each have a phone on their respective end tables by their respective recliners. They got sick of reaching across to hand the other the phone. (Exercise is BIG in our house.)
I treasure the aesthetics of old phones, too. I have a collection of rotary phones, including pink and turquoise ones, which all still work. The phone in my room is an old fashioned black desk phone—one of the first touchtone phones. You just can't cradle a cell phone on your shoulder like an old phone. I suppose that's why there's headsets, which I fully intend to use while not in public. I heart multi-tasking.
I feel as if I've crossed a threshold. There's no going back to the simple life of coming home and checking the answering machine. Another source of anticipation crushed by technology and my submission to it.
To compensate for this particular act of succumbing to "modernity," today I made compost tea. (I'm not sure if these two acts karmically balance. Whatever.)