In case of downtime, boredom, delays, or any situation in which I’m forced to wait, I’ve learned to pack two things that never fail in their capacity to transport my mind to a more interesting place: my phone and a book (haha, no, not a phonebook). No matter where I am or what situation I’m in, with the turn of a page or the tap of a finger, I can be somewhere else, chewing on ideas as if they were sticks of everlasting gum.
I loathe ravings of the latest and greatest gadget (even though I’m influenced by them every time I shop on Amazon), so I’ll spare you a lengthy review by just saying that yes, the iPhone is one of these toys, and if you’re at all like me--at all into efficiency that is--you already have one. Kyna was right in wondering why Apple confused everyone by calling it a phone; it’s better defined in terms of the computer. Anyways, I’m at the point where all of my free time is wrapped up in this device, making me imperturbable, serene in the face of boredom--or so I like to think.
Currently, I’m back in my parents’ house, leeching and lounging until I find a job that finds me as desirable in person as I appear on paper (my interviewing skills seem to be lacking) and my Mom is using me likewise, asking for favors, sending me on errands--Joannes, The Sewing Company--you name it I’ve been there. Tonight, she wanted me to pick her up at the “Four Corners” at 6:30 in the evening and I agreed, leaving for the Silver Saver parking lot with my phone and a book conscientiously tucked beside me, as unworried and unconcerned about the time as I was about dodging the potholes on Badger; it was a bumpy ride.
Positioning the bug in a noticeable spot in front of The Silver Saver, I read, played chess on my phone, and facebooked, sinking into these distractions like a diver disappearing into the murk. When my Mom finally called, an hour and a half had passed; an hour and a half that had barely registered in my mind.
My mom couldn't have been be aware of my relationship with these devices because after telling her I’d been waiting since 6:30, she was a bit too sorry, her apologies—though prefaced by “but I thought you knew!”—uncomfortably sincere. Driving home, I faked frustration and glared out the window, withholding forgiveness like a forgotten child. The cool desert air blasted my face and the ragged roar of the engine was a beehive in my ears, but I was somewhere else entirely, regretting imbalances, selfishness, and miscommunication. That’s all. She thought I knew to come later; I thought she knew to come sooner. Either way, I bore the results and accepted the apologies. I lived in two worlds and I stole the best of both.