My ambivalence toward my cell phone borders on disregard. Once I dropped it in the snow for The Partner to drive over in his truck. It survived. On another occasion, same phone, it fell from the pocket of my hiked-up jean skirt into the toilet just as I depressed the flusher. It did not survive.
After a couple years of going cell-phone-less, I have one again. I am still reckless. I misplaced it earlier today and realized I didn't much care. I went about my daily business relying instead on email. I thought that maybe the phone was gone for good. Then I sat down to relax in front of the television and heard a muffled ring emanating from somewhere. I started up toward the sound, but each step took me further away. I walked backwards, but that didn't intensify the ring. I turned in confused circles.
I had to call my cell phone with the land line four times, traversing the house and climbing up and down two flights of stairs, before I realized that the muffling agents were a door and a pocket. The electronic song got louder as each barrier was removed; first, I opened the hall closet, then I reached into the folds of the outdated purple and black LL Bean coat I'd worn yesterday. I was greeted by the low-battery and 8-missed-calls message on the screen of my shiny red phone. I scrunched my nose and glared at it.
I don't love my phone. Never really have. Sometimes when I think about my relationship with Ma Bell, I ponder the fact that dropping my cell into the compromised waters of a public toilet might've been more of a statement than an accident.