I Can't Feel My Thumbs

Not having a cell phone is like one of those bad dreams where you wake up in front of your high school graduation about to give the most important speech of your life, and as you approach the podium, honor cords and tassels waving, you realize that you're buck naked. That's how I feel without the aid of a cell phone. Missing something important in my life, and a little bit embarrassed I'm not like the rest of the world.

For full effect, download "New Slang" by The Shins, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post.

Now let me back up to Sunday morning as I was pulling in to my parking lot and my roommate decided to scare the little kid out of me before I could even get out of my car. Cue heart-stopping minor burst of fear throughout my central nervous system. Cue slight dampening of my pants caused by his sudden outburst. And also, cue recently purchased iPhone come flying out of my hands and on to the cruel patch of concrete he was standing on. This is also the part of the story where you may or may not cue a short burst of curse words to the sky in frustration at the now shattered screen of the device that keeps me linked to the rest of the world. #firstworldproblems #likeasailor

And now, here I am. 72 hours later, surviving barely on fumes of social media, naked like a newborn disconnected from humanity.

"Check out this Twitter feed that's blowing up about that five-star recruit in Salt Lake thinking about coming to Dixie State!" My boss says. This is the part where I show him the tiny shards of glass that are splintered into my fingertips and will be until they dissolve in seven years all because I stubbornly decided to not use the fingertip identification tool that Apple offers. Now every time my phone rings or my students text me, I have the moral dilemma of weighing out the options whether talking to them is worth another slice into my hands and the chance of contracting a bacterial infection.

"How come you didn't pick up the phone when all of us tried to call you and tell you that Great-Grandma died! That is so insensitive of you!" My family will yell at me. A number 1, she's 96 and confuses her nephews for her husband in accidental make out sessions at funerals, and B number 2, it's because I just got over my recent bout of gangrene and didn't want to contract a staph infection from the open sores on my blistered to shreds fingertips, that's why. I love you Grandma, but not that much. Sorry, old lady. Just e-mail me the directions to the funeral home. I'll be there wearing mittens.

"Why are you two hours late to work, Brock?" My supervisor holding a coffee mug will chastise me as I stumble into the office just before noon. Well the thing is, there was this one time when my alarm went off on time as usual, but when I went to turn it off, I gashed open my hand so badly that I couldn't control the bleeding. From that point I actually passed out on my own floor from extreme blood loss and it took me this long to recover and somehow stumble into this place. Yeah, that's what happens when your roommate scares the small intestines out of you on a Sunday morning and you can't turn off an alarm clock properly.

I am addicted to my iPhone. I use it for everything. To call old friends, text family members, read reports from my boss, send e-mails, play Sudoku late at night, watch HIMYM on Netflix, keep track of the random thoughts that jump in and out of my head, calculate mileage for a work road trip, Facebook stalk morons from high school, swipe left or right on pretty faces, heck, half the time I write my entire blog on this device. It is my beating heart, the fire within, the fuel to me functioning, and any other figurative reference you can use to describe how I am on life support without it.

Well, we all are. And until I get it back, I'm standing naked at the podium with no clue how to function in modern day society.