celling out

I had no cell phone last week. Much to the disbelief of my mother, who of course attributed the battery failure to some dumb action on my part, such as dropping it in the toilet or baking it into a birthday bundt cake, it simply failed on me. I walked to my car on Tuesday morning, pulled it out of the pocket of my brown dress pants, and the screen was dark. At each successive stoplight I attempted to give it life. I removed its back end, fed it 50 ccs of car charger, stat! and opened and closed its little pink face repeatedly. Nothing worked. When I reached my computer I quickly Googled the closest repair shop. Maryland. Open until 5. Gee, only two states away! The Beltway is a total joy at rush hour! Suddenly it dawned on me: I wouldn’t be able to make it to the repair shop until the weekend. I, Kris, would be cell phoneless for at least a full five days, unreachable after the hour of 5:30 by man and beast and beastlike men. I’d be on my own, just like the old days, when the cumbersome nature of the rotary dial made it a chore to call friends. It’s hard to describe, but a fierce calm passed over me, one I had not known in some time. I was free.

I cannot tell you how comforting this was to me. As the social butterfly who admittedly hates people, I was free to spend my time as I wanted it, free from my cellular tether. I leave the damn thing on silent most of the time that I’m home, when it’s in the deep recesses of my oversized handbag or the couch, but I always know it’s there. And, like the frosted strawberry Pop Tarts did when I once allowed them into my home, it calls to me with a voice strikingly similar to Gollum’s. Kris . . . come hither. . . text Kim and tell her you’re watching Ghost Whisperer. . . AND THAT YOU’VE ALREADY SEEN THIS EPISODE TWICE! I also got to feel a little bit of the phantom limb syndrome that poor Bug likely encounters on a daily basis; I reached for that phone in more ridiculous locations than any woman should admit, realizing with some sadness that, like his hind leg, it was no more. We both spent the week with a little bit of a limp.

So I give you, dear readers, an abbreviated list of those places that I check and/or use my cell phone but absolutely, positively do not have to:

My bed. My cell doubles as my alarm clock, so even though I keep the damn thing on one beep for calls, I crank it up to a level 3 so I can rock out to Kelly Clarkson while I’m hatching. When I didn’t have it last week, I overslept for work, waking up at 8:57 in a cold I-missed-the-final-Bio-exam sweat. Because apparently a woman with a master’s can’t program her 1994 Dream Machine for a 7 am wakeup. Admittedly, my degree is in psychology.

Bars. What’s interesting is that I’m never texting or talking to people I’m meeting out that night. But while tipsy I simply must text and know: Jorge and Mrs. Jorge, does the water go down the drain in the opposite direction in Canada? Meredith, what’s the temperature in the bathroom in your apartment? Kim, is Scott Baio really, like seriously, doing a reality series? No. Seriously.

In the elevator in my apartment building. Where I don’t get reception. And I know it.

The bathroom. Stacy and I will actually announce that we are going to use the commode when we’re speaking to one another, as if this makes this behavior a) acceptable, or b) ACCEPTABLE. I have also used the cell in the tub, which makes me feel very L.A. Law for some reason, given that my cell phone is so huge and archaic and I look absolutely nothing like Susan Dey. I have also been known to brush my teeth while taking a cell call. Because I just love when people do that kind of crap to me.

The vet’s/doctor’s/therapist’s waiting room. I text while sitting in these spots all the time. I’ll often gaily laugh out loud at innocuous content just to confuse and/or make myself the envy of those around me. Then again, I often laugh out loud at the Reader’s Digest when I’m in the therapist’s waiting room. I’m pretty sure that’s led to at least one unwarranted diagnosis.

The movies. I won’t make or take calls, but I do check my phone once or twice during any film to see if I’ve gotten a text or a phone message. Because as you well know, something important could transpire during the 120 minutes I’m otherwise occupied, like my mother requesting 50 pounds of Fresh Step on my next trip to PetSmart, or, you know, a priority call from Jesus. I hear he’s got a sweet friends and family plan.

So yes, I caved. I got a new cell phone yesterday. And I’m already thinking it might be time to bake it into a bundt cake.