Please Don't Call Me

This morning I went on a walk with a friend. Our common goal was exercise, but naturally we chatted on the way. Twice we were interrupted by her ringing cell phone; both times it was her mother, a lively 83-year-old, who wanted to consult about hair appointments and the like. My friend, devoted daughter that she is, took the call both times, slowing our pace and interrupting our conversation.

My own cell phone was stashed in my sweatshirt pocket in case we crossed paths with a crazed escaped convict, or if my husband or son needed me. (If my mother had called I'd be on Oprah tomorrow, since she died in 1983.) I hate to be without it these days. Stupidly, when I'm phone-less I feel more vulnerable to harm, as if just because I don't have it with me I will have a flat tire in the Middle of Nowhere. It's stupid because the Middle of Nowhere often lacks cell service.

Technology dominates my home life as well: my husband has an iPad, an iPhone and an iMac. (In fact, he's so Macced-out, I wonder why Steve Jobs hasn't had us over for dinner.)  He insists he needs all these devices for his work, and while it's true he traffics in the Internet for a living, still I yearn for the old days--and I'm talking really old days now-- when we could throw a few things into a suitcase and be gone without having to turn around because one of us forgot the car charger for our phone, or the damn phone itself.

Would it be so terrible to travel without a phone? What's everyone gabbing about, anyway? More importantly, what really needs to be said? Unless you've dialed 9-1-1, that last phone call you made was likely dispensable. And now there is growing concern that holding the phone right up to your ear might really cause brain cancer.

Think about that the next time it rings: who is worth the risk?