I have salivated over the iPhone since it came out. Its user-friendly appeal, its sleek design, its pioneering introduction of the touch screen; these features and more have always kept me chasing it like Glen Close after Michael Douglas: “I won’t be ignored, iPhone.”
But, after years of terrible, terrible cell service under AT&T, I swore I would never go back. That company is dead to me. I don’t care how many towers they erect and how many cool phones they pioneer on the market. I will never go back to them. If they become the only cell service available, due to some anarchical overturn of the Sherman Anti-Trust Act of 1890, I will communicate by smoke signals and email.
When the rumblings of the iPhone becoming available on Verizon started to turn into roars, I vowed to hold out until I could have my very own Verizon iPhone, with perfect service and all the apps a girl could dream of. Then, my decrepit Blackberry Pearl disappeared from the locker room at my restaurant (either stolen or disintegrated). I was forced to buy a new phone.
One week later, Steve Jobs (RIP) announced that the iPhone would indeed be coming to Verizon. DAMMIT!
Now, everyone I know seems to be getting an iPhone. The Awesome Opossum got hers. Pandito will have one within weeks. Even my parents, the most cell phone phobic people alive, recently purchased two matching iPhones.
My parents have shared one rinky-dink “pay as you go” cell phone for years. It’s so old that it says Cingular on it. Cingular hasn’t been an official company since at least 2006, but I remember not being able to renew my contract with them or purchase a Cingular phone as early as 2004. This phone is old. It’s a flip phone that’s so small and light, it looks like a prop. Remember when giant, Zach Morris-esque phones were retro? Holding this phone gives me the same feeling as watching Patrick Bateman in American Psycho talk on his enormous car phone. But recently, my mom’s work has asked for more availability than this tiny phone could accommodate, and the two of them jumped in with both feet.
My rabid desire for the iPhone has become a running joke in my close inner circles. It is my white whale, my Atlantis, my precious; I’m left trying to navigate life on my Blackberry, the technological equivalent of tilting at windmills.
Honestly, my Blackberry is fine. It does its job well, gets great reception and doesn’t splinter into a hundred pieces when I repeatedly drop it. It should be applauded, not disparaged. And if any of my peeps feel burdened by all their new technology, I’m wide open for a trade.