Can You Hear Me Now?

The other night I had the pleasure of sitting in my office chair in the den surrounded by the people who had given me that very chair for a 27th birthday present a little over a month ago. I have very nice friends. It was kinda odd how the whole group of us had migrated to the Aerie (as Michael and I call it) which isn't really conducive to large groups - but there we were. And as we sat around answering questions from "The Book of Questions" (you can find it at Amazon with questions like: "If a new medicine were developed that would cure arthritis but cause a fatal reaction in 1 percent of those who took it, would you want it to be released to the public?" -- that's question 5), we laughed at ourselves, got into really interesting discussions about gender equality, and sometimes we had no answers. But they made us think, the questions did. Well, they got me thinking, which is what they're supposed to do and the reason why I own the book. Michael, the question asker for the evening, read off a query about our own perceived compulsive habits. As in, do we think we have any?

My first thoughts were that I'm constantly checking the locks on the house (something I learned from my dad) and that when I leave for work I check and recheck my pockets for the daily essentials (keys, wallet, phone, flash drive, etc.); Andy nicknamed me OCD because of this one. Upon more serious reflection, I had to come to terms with the fact that I have another habit that's so compulsive, it's just a way of life.

Talking on my cell phone.

It's like a drug. Anyone who knows me has seen the phenomenon hard at work. You know those cell phone commercials where the scientists test their phones with those people who talk for like 1500 minutes or something?

Amateurs.

If I have a free moment, I'll dial one of my regulars. Break at work? Lunch? Even for a few minutes to help pass the time on the drive to (or home from) work; if there's someone to talk with, I'm talking. If my usual rush-hour chat isn't available, my brain starts running through the schedules of all of my loved ones and friends to see if I can figure out who might be available. Mary? In class. Erik? At work. John? At work. And the list goes on. One by one I sort through my address book until I find someone who might be free -- and if I can't, I'll resign myself to listening to the radio (which is rough as the antenna of my car was unceremoniously removed by a Shell station car wash nearly four years ago). A drive home with no one to talk to? Horrible, in my opinion. But why? Can't I drive twenty to thirty minutes without having a conversation? Am I that dependant on talking on my phone?

And for anyone out there who might think that not talking while driving is probably for the best, let's make sure we're all on the same page. I use a headset. I'm all about hands-free cell phone use and being alert to driving while driving. I support laws that require such accessories. In fact, I've worn through half a dozen headsets in the past five years because I wear them every time I'm on the phone. Not just in the car. Every. Time. Maybe that's a sub-compulsive habit...my addiction to the headset. Seriously, having one makes it so much easier to converse, to enjoy the phone call, and to relax (or heck, do the dishes, shop for groceries, etc.). Holding the phone up to my ear, my arm getting heavy, the phone getting warm against my cheek? No. If you've ever been on the phone with me and I sound flustered, annoyed, or like I've only got one arm, I might not have had the headset (it happens, I deal with it). That, or I'm starving. Lack of food and me? Apparently not the best to be around.

Recently I noticed that I'm approaching the 3,000 minute mark per month. Yeah. I did some math (and this isn't scientific, just my own figures) and I'm on the phone around 10% of my waking life. Ten. Over an hour and a half a day. Does that seem healthy to anyone? Maybe it's normal. Maybe I'm not the cell-phone junkie I claim to be. It just seems like a lot of my life is devoted to making and receiving phone calls.

I even dream about cell phones. And not in a good way. Is there a good way? The most recent was a simple anxiety dream where I'd run my cell phone through the wash with my jeans and sufficiently destroyed it. Very sad. Sadder is the fact that my father actually did this. Twice*. That poor cell phone.

*The cell phone survived the first time, a few weeks back. This time, not so much.

Five years ago, I didn't own a cell phone. I didn't see the point. I had a phone, in my room, and I used it to make plans and talk to friends and family. That was it. Even Mary didn't have a cell phone when I met her (I don't know how she held out for so long...don't worry, she finally broke down and bought one -- thank you OSU). But there was a time when cell phones were as foreign to me as rocket propulsion systems.

Now I can't even meet up with people for a night out without calling from the parking lot to coordinate where they might be sitting in the restaurant or theater at which we're meeting. Scary, huh? And I'm all about up to the minute updates on changing plans, traffic issues, etc. I wonder if we didn't have the cell phone, if we would keep more appointments or follow through with more group planning. It's amazing how a group of people can have a plan and then, because of last minute three-way conversations en route, completely redesign their entire evening without missing a beat. You know, the restaurant is packed or traffic's a bear and the point person starts the chain to call everyone and redeploy the group to the new hot spot -- how inconvenient it must have been in the days of yore when you just had to put up with arriving to a packed restaurant surrounded with lousy traffic without any warning in transit.

It's about convenience isn't it? Calling people while doing other things saves time. I can run hours worth of errands on a weekend, all while on the phone with people hundreds of miles away while they too are chatting with me AND running their own hours and hours of errands. We're so busy that to stop and just talk -- just talk, nothing else -- seems almost counterproductive. Heaven forbid I actually stop what I'm doing to communicate with another human, right?

Heck -- last night, I was in the den and I sent a text message to Erik, my roommate, to ask him something. He was in the family room. Now, my house isn't small, but I don't live in a palatial estate either. We don't have an east wing or anything. I could have easily walked down the hall and through the kitchen or I could have been lazy the old fashioned way and shouted, "Hey Erik, c'mere!" and waited the twenty seconds for him to walk to the den and see what I needed. Nope -- instead I sent him a text.

Scarier still -- he texted back.

So the other night, as we gathered in the den and sat around as a group until one day rolled into the next, I couldn't help but feel compulsively happy. Cell phones, yeah, they're nice. They allow me to talk to friends who are hundreds, sometimes thousands, of miles away. And for all the talking I do on a cell phone, I like to think I interact face-to-face and hold intelligent conversations with people just as much, if not more so. Those little gadgets do just about everything now; but you can't beat sitting around with your pals, having a laugh, discussing the crazy wonderful that is life...sharing those moments...what could be better? Answer me that.