It’s happened. I’ve bonded with my iPhone in just under three weeks; not as fast as the instinctive mammalian love for my children, but faster than my affection for a really nice chef’s knife. Lately I’m prone to day dream about losing this thing I’ve come to love so much. Of course, it will be my fault if it happens. It’s so unsettling; I am worried about my iPhone on a level that was previously reserved for human relationships.
Sometimes I take my iPhone into the bathroom (thought I’d confess even if I’m not the only one doing this). I imagine one lazy morning misstep where I lurch forward and my IPhone makes a graceful arch directly into the toilet. In slow motion… into urine…and I try to fish the thing out of there with my bare hands… it doesn’t make it. It all happens in my head, fleeting but powerful.
Sometimes I’m walking. I drop my iPhone in such a way that it escapes the security of the rubber Otter case it’s swaddled in and smashes into useless metal chunks. I entertain a millisecond of hope that it can be repaired, but no, it’s dead. Just as if it happened, I physically twinge with a hard heart-thump.
Sometimes I’m simply negligent. What if I leave it in the car on a hot day with the windows up? I come back to the car and find to my horror that my iPhone has suffocated. I turn it on and it runs really, really slowly before fading to black forever. I shake my fists at the sky, “For God’s sake, I just learned to tweet!” At this point, I experience a little pre-sobbing emotion– no tears, just imagined remorse.
Yep, that’s love; a small curse bestowed on me by Apple Inc.