I can quit any time I choose, dammit. I’m not addicted. I can stop playing with my phone whenever I please. In fact, I’m putting it down right now —after I check my email.
Okay, I’m setting it down for real this time.
Just one second.
Anyway, the thing is, I like smartphones. They’ve made me into the vegetable I am. I used to be a boring idiot. But now, I’m a boring idiot who can’t make eye-contact. My wife notices my minor problem. For instance: when eating supper, I often play Fruit Ninja while she explains exactly how she’ll divorce me if I don’t put down my phone.
To which I’ll respond, “No, sweetie, those pants don’t make your butt look big.” Which is a foolproof response for fake-listeners all over the world.
But don’t let my wife deceive you, she’s no iPhone-saint either. Last night, Jamie spent six hours staring at her phone. That’s almost an entire workday’s worth of using her thumbs. While she played Candy Crush, I scrolled Facebook asking things like, “Honey, do I look as old and wrinkled as my high-school girlfriend?”
“No, dear,” Jamie answered. “Those jeans don’t make your butt look big.”
Yes, I know. Smartphones have supposedly destroyed interpersonal communication, handicapping American teenagers, paralyzing procreation amongst sea turtles. Blah blah blah, horse hockey. I don’t even want to remember what I did at stoplights before my iPhone, much less what I did while driving at high speeds, or mowing the lawn.
I’m just kidding. I don’t mow lawns.
I use my phone so often — and I’m not making this up — I’ve developed sprained thumbs. The doctor said there’s an official name for this pandemic sweeping the nation. It’s called: sprained thumbs. He recommends I find other hobbies besides Netflix, and shut down the phone so my thumbs can rest.
“Doc,” I said. “Please tell me you don’t mean I’m supposed to power down my phone for good.”
“No, son,” he said. “Those pants don’t make your butt look big.”