implements of torture

This is my cell phone: a Nokia 6015i. It was the first cell phone I ever had. Actually the only cell phone I’ve ever had. I got it so I could have a phone with me in case my daughter, who was in boot camp at the time, would have an unscheduled moment to call her dad. Otherwise, I’d be phone-less.

It gives me no joy. Using it is torture. The buttons, which if I used it regularly would be findable with muscle memory, are almost bare, and I struggle to figure out what each is. Most transactions that I’ve tried to use my phone for start by having me enter my ten digit phone number. I’ve never been able to make it. Let me add that sometimes the buttons take two or three presses to register a numeral. Other times they register twice in the blink of an eye.

So using it for my convenience just doesn’t happen. Everything else? I picture people with little electronic buttons and devious smiles. They know they can press the buttons and make obnoxious noises in the person of their choosing’s close proximity to the point that the individual absolutely must deal with the noise. I can’t do that to someone. I don’t like it when anyone does it to me. For that reason, my phone is usually out of the way somewhere. Lost in an odd coat pocket, a drawer, maybe bumping around on the floor of my car. At least, when I realize it’s been missing for a few days, those are the places I look first.

On rare occasions when I find it, and remember to press a button to light it up, I get a message that says I missed a message. Often times I miss that message for days, and only see the message that I’ve missed a message when the phone lights up to tell me it needs to be charged. Then I get to try to recover the message that I missed. Often that takes three or four tries, then I get to listen to many of my older messages before hearing the new one. Every now and then I’m able to delete a message. I’d really rather not have to.