I traded my rotary for mobility.

I still carry a Walkman, mail letters, watch movies on VHS and read the inky version of the newspaper, but now I find myself blogging(!) about my abrupt reversal of hatred toward the cellular phone.

I’ve always been anti-cell. Annoyed by the customer who ignores the transaction, bruised by the driver who hit and continued her conversation, confused by my robo-landlord who would look right at you while talking through his ear and baffled by the concertgoer who texts rather than listens. The cell seemed to disconnect the humanity in people.

So why would I get one?

Jealousy. Similar to the feeling towards the smokers who get to take a break from the office, I’d grown weary of searching out functional payphones or asking grumpy strangers for a favour. “Who doesn’t have a cell phone?” or “I don’t lend it out” they would answer, even when offered upwards of a Loonie.

Frankly, being the Listings-Duder at The Uniter, I’m supposed to be aware of everything that is happening in this frozen culture-laden city. So text me your event at 509-4516 and after I calm down from the vibration on my nipple from keeping the thing in my shirt pocket, I’ll put your announcement into our paper. I probably won’t text you back though, because I am slower than your grandpa trying to figure out how to work a mouse.

Oh, technology. It’s been under a week since I’ve joined the communication revolution and I find myself texting my roommate when the nachos are ready and answering my phone at my retail job. I’m going to get Internet on the thing then become really annoying.

TTFN.