I have never had a cell phone. I have always felt that such a spurious device would be an impediment to my freedom of movement. Not only would my parents be able to contact me and make me come home for dinner whilst I’m out adventuring, but . . .
I don’t have pockets.
For some reason, dresses are hardly ever made with pockets. I don’t see why not. Pockets would be just as easy to put on a dress as on jeans. Easier! Jean pockets are a whole lot more complicated to sew than an in-seam or patch pocket, as would befit a dress.
But then again, I hardly ever sew pockets on my homemade dresses, either. I’m always in too much of a hurry.
I just want to get that sucker done, so I can put it on and parade around the house in it. Pockets are just such a hassle; and then again, even if I did have pockets, would I want a heavy little cell phone smacking into my leg with every step?
I think not.
I’ve learned to live without pockets, just as I’ve learned to live without cell phones.
Actually, scratch that. I was born without a cell phone; I’m just naturally cell phone-less.
But that all changed on January 13th; one week ago, because for my birthday, I got . . .
Look at how happy and pleased this lady is to be chatting on her go phone. But I’m not like that. No one would call me, except to tell me to show up places.
(Incidentally, is it “Go Phone“? or, “Go-phone,” Gophone,” or “GOphone?” I wouldn’t know. Too many options for my cob-webby little brain. Ask me about Louisa May Alcott, or sewing patterns, and I’ll feel okay again)
I read an inspiring article a couple of months ago. It was a harrowing tale depicting the lives of those brave men and women who refuse to have cell phones, including one lady who made a common practice of throwing stones at the neighbor’s dogs in order to let her friend know that she had arrived for a visit.
It’s weird to think that we non-cell-phoners are a minority now. However, that only makes it easier than ever to not have a cell phone! It’s just so easy to go up to some nice, responsible-looking person and ask, very politely, if they know where a pay phone is?
No problem, Little Girl, just use my cell phone!
Wow, thanks, Mister!
It might help that I can easily be mistaken for a bewildered Amish girl, lost in the big city. I will mourn the day I look too old to play that role.
As for my spiffy, brand-new cellular telephone? It’s still in it’s box. I might pop it open, I might not.
But no worries; if I don’t do it soon, I’m sure that some responsible grown-ups who love me very much will force me to, after a time.