Tuesday, December 16, 2008

APPLE OF MY i

It's the kind of love that doesn't just emanate from the heart. It slides and skitters through the veins, alighting limbs and extremities with a passion that itches for tactile contact. For it's that touch that enthused the soul to start. Fingertips stretch for caress—and when they meet that objet du d├ęsir, their movement becomes impassioned, quick, and light.

And the iPhone responds accordingly.

There's no denying it; my phone is the cat's pajamas. B.I. (Before iPhone), I was mocked.

See, my husband and I, we are couple Macsionaries with a testimony that Apple has a plan for each one of us. Everyone should know the joy of a computer that actually does what you tell it to and goes twain by anticipating the users' needs.

Yet [stupidly?] I resisted when the device made its market debut. The Husband did not; he got his twitching fingers on the thing Day One. He made fun of my antiquated Razr. My coworkers asked me if I could even text message on the thing. It took the birth of the 3G for me to, eh, pull my head out and grow up. I abandoned Verizon, hooked up with AT&T, and slid Apple's telecom device into my pocket.

And it stayed there for about three minutes.

And it hasn't been back in said pocket since.

It's my alarm. It's my grocery list. It's my calorie counter. It's my calendar. My email. My Google Reader. My flashlight. My pet fish. My notebook. My scriptures. My hymnal. My amusement. My camera. My Scrabble opponent. My mancala opponent. My Weatherman. My iPod. My calculator. My atlas. My dictionary. My GPS. My clandestine recorder. My bank. My soothing-ocean-sounds machine. My remote control. My library. My encyclopedia. My applause proxy. My yoga instructor. My nightstand clock. My address book. My line into the outside world. My bitch.

Oh, and it serves as a handy little phone and messaging device as well.

It's my Everything. It knows me.

If The Husband didn't have a little love of his own I think he'd be even more resentful than he already is of the time I spend canoodling with my device. But he has one; so he gets it.

However, even in the most perfect loves there is lack. And, in this love affair, it's that the device is too chatty. The thing always wants to be talking to someone. How do I know this? It makes phone calls without my permission. (Well, it has my autonomic permission, I suppose, as it makes phone calls with my direct touch as the impetus; but I tell you, consciously, I had no intention of calling my boss at 11:30 p.m. on a Saturday.)

But as, in any good relationship, I'm sure that the problem is me. It's not you, baby, its me. I am the one that put the boss' number into my Favorites. I'm the one who opened the Favorites list in the first place. It's my fault.

So, to make things work in this relationship, we've had to make some compromises. The phone won't call anyone I didn't tell it to so long as I don't open the Favorites. When I do, anything goes, and I may learn later that my coworker overheard me having a conversation with another coworker because my phone got happy. (Oh please tell me that he didn't overhear me saying something I shouldn't have . . . )

Love it less? I think not.

So, Mom, I'm sorry for the phone call yesterday at 2:48 p.m. I guess my phone just wanted to chat.

3 comments:

Tricia said...

I have iEnvy after reading your post.

I've been praying for a mac and someday an iPhone.

my mother continually taunts me with her iphone.

if she really loved me, wouldn't she just buy me one?!

for now I will use my palm while I fast and pray for something "i" in my life soon.

Morgan said...

a calorie counter? really? that's cool. although, i'm sure you don't need it silly.

Just Sue said...

YOU! My dear, are a trip; and one well worth taking!