I just returned from a trip to visit my cousin and his family in New York. I have many warm, loving thoughts and impressions about my time there, which I will share in upcoming weeks. It is a serendipity that I should bring home such beautiful memories, considering the way my trip began.
I drove myself to Orlando and left my car with the valet at the airport. I successfully wrangled my luggage, even attaching the bag tag correctly on my very first try. I waited in only one incorrect line. Once I released my suitcase into the care of the good people at JetBlue, I plodded my way through security and found my gate.
That is when disaster stuck. I fished around in my purse to get my cell phone to call Max and let him know I was safely at the airport. There was no cell phone in my purse. I tried my tote bag. There was no cell phone in my tote bag. It seemed likely that I had left my phone in the car. The awful truth dawned on me. I was unplugged.
At least, I was mostly unplugged. By some miraculous twist of fate, I had brought my laptop with me. However, I had no means of making calls or sending texts. I also had no access to phone numbers. I also could not take photos. Perhaps most galling was the fact that my phone houses my pedometer app, which records and acknowledges all the steps I walk in a day. If I am not carrying my phone, it is like all the exercise I do is nonexistent.
In fact, without a cell phone, it was like I was nonexistent. It was like I had unwittingly entered the witness relocation program.
I considered my options- one of which was to return home in defeat. It was too late to go back to the valet and search my car for the phone. I tried my laptop, thinking I could try email and Facebook to communicate with the world outside my brain, but I could not get Wi-Fi connection in the airport.
My most immediate dilemma was how to reach my cousin and his wife. They were picking me up at the airport and I was supposed to text them when I arrived so they would know I was at the terminal. Not only could I not text, but I also had no access to the proper phone numbers even if I could text.
I asked if there were any pay phones around in the airport, but these relics of antiquity have gone the way of Ozymandias. Next, I looked for one of those airport electronics mini stores. No luck. I went into a general merchandise store and asked if it was possible to buy a cheapie cell phone. The clerk sized me up and down before responding disdainfully that asking to buy a cell phone in an airport is highly sketchy. I guess I might as well have been wearing a sign saying, “I’m a terrorist.”
I decided I was going to need to get some help from some stranger with a phone. I was also hungry. Looking at the options, I decided the best place to rely on the kindness of strangers was at Chick-fil-a. I ordered breakfast and started to explain my dilemma. I had chosen wisely because it was the Chick-fil-a’s lady’s pleasure to loan me her phone. She was even fine with me carrying it off with me away from the counter. I called Max and got all the numbers I had written down for him for my cousin’s phones. I then tried calling all of the said numbers but had to leave messages. I also texted to explain what happened. I needed to ask them not to wait for my text to collect me but to come looking for me. I also needed them to know that it was only my phone and not I that was missing.
I got on the plane not knowing if my call for help reached my cousin. Once the plane was in the air, I was able to connect to the in-flight Wi-Fi, so I emailed, posted about my plight on Facebook, and pleaded with my cousin’s wife on Messenger to somehow find me in JFK airport.
I thought, if my cousin did not get my numerous non-phone-related messages, he would call the house phone and Max would advise of the problem. If worst came to worst, I could be like Tom Hanks in that movie, The Terminal, where his character ends up living at JFK for months. These musings were all pretty level-headed of me, given the circumstances, but I was pretty sure I was ultimately going to need to borrow someone else’s cell phone when I got to New York.
When the plane landed, I thought about my next steps. I decided I could either ask the lady sitting next to me if I could borrow her phone or I could wait until I got my suitcase and then ask some random stranger in New York City for this favor. I got up twice during the flight to let the lady next to me visit the restroom. I figured we were besties now. Or, if not besties, she owed me.
She was very gracious and helpful as we tried calling and texting all the possible phone numbers. We finally reached my cousin’s wife on the third try. They had seen my Messenger communication. My cousin was circling the airport (and might have to continue doing so for the hour it took me to get my suitcase) and his wife had conveniently planted herself right outside the carousel on which my suitcase eventually appeared.
Our first stop after the airport was at Best Buy to purchase a pay-as-you-go stupid phone. No access to the internet and, of course, no access to contacts. Basically, though, it allowed me to call my cousin, his wife, Max, and- most importantly- 911.
Once I found my family and had an emergency phone, I was much less anxious. I did mind being able to take good pictures. I did mind not being able to Google any little thing that crossed my mind. I did mind missing all the critical communications I was sure were languishing on my real cell phone, wherever it might be. Still, the absence of my smart phone did cause me to focus on the moment and be more present with my family. There was a certain liberation inherent in having severely limited ability to communicate with people who were not right in front of me. Being without pocket internet access quelled my tendency to problem-solve 24/7. I was able to release much of the worry and responsibility I shoulder for all problems- mine and everyone else’s.
During my trip, I managed to convince myself that the phone was going to be in the cupholder in my car. I could almost see it there. Often, if I have the phone in my pocket when I get in the car, it is uncomfortable, so I pull it out and put it in the cupholder. I have left it there at times in the past. By telling myself this little fairy tale, I avoided obsessing about the cost and tribulation I would need to incur if I could not locate the phone when I returned home.
The fairy tale dimmed a little in my mind when I got closer to reality, but I was still fairly sure the phone was going to be in the car. Just to be safe, I asked at the airport Information Desk about a “lost and found” desk before going to the valet stand. Unfortunately, the “lost and found” desk was closed but the nice lady explained how to file a claim online. I listened, but I was still counting on a eureka moment when I opened my car door.
You can imagine my heartbreak when I opened the door and did not see my cell phone. I looked between the seats, in the backseat, even in the glove compartment. No cell phone. I could feel the despondency I had been pushing away all week come rushing back like the water when that little Dutch kid took his finger out of the dike. For the first time in this whole debacle, I felt heavy with defeat. I was mourning.
When I arrived home, I melted into Max’s arms and let him absorb some of my disappointment. I tried to be philosophical. In the grand scheme of things, people deal with a lot worse problems every day. My cell phone was old, beat-up, and probably in need of replacement anyway. I could recreate most of my contacts from other sources. However, I was looking at a depressingly long list of tasks that would be necessary to patch together some semblance of my administrative life. No matter how much I tried to give myself a pep talk, there was no denying that recreating my digital existence was going to be a pain in the patoot. And the photos. All the photos I had on that phone would be gone forever.
I took a sleeping pill and went to bed, hoping that things would seem more surmountable in the morning.
The next day, I pulled a bottle of tea out of the backseat of my car. When I moved that bottle, I thought I caught a glimpse of something vaguely phone-shaped pushed far under the driver’s seat. I could not be sure. A dead, black-screened cell phone on a black carpet under a black leather seat is pretty effectively camouflaged. I took my trusty high-powered flashlight and found that, sure enough, my cell phone was pushed far under the seat. Using the control to move the seat back and forward, plus some interesting gymnastic moves, I was able to grab the phone. It spent the whole day in time-out with its troublesome butt in the charger.
The smart phone is once again surgically attached to me. I have my photos and my contacts. I can Google and search IMBD to my heart’s delight. My music library is available whenever I feel a dance break coming on. Walking steps has meaning once more. Yes, I did reap some benefits from going six unplugged days in terms of living in the moment and being more engaged with the people physically with me. However, I learned that being unplugged is a lot more complicated than it would seem. . People always say, “what did we do in the days before smart phones?” Suffered. That’s what we did.
Have you ever tried to unplug from technology? How did it go? Please share your perspective by leaving a comment. In the alternative, you can email me at terriretirement@gmail.com.
Have a plugged in day!
Terri/Dorry 😊