You Can Call Me, Al
I'm feeling naked tonight. Naked, isolated, and alone. You see, in my hurry to get out of the office (finally) this evening, I left my cell phone at my desk and didn't realize it till I was on the bus.
Sitting on the bus, weighing the pros and cons of going back to get my cell, I realized what a true test of my own sense of self-importance this situation is. Do I really think I am so important that the world will collapse if I can't be reached by phone for one evening? Is there any message I could miss that would be so dire that it couldn't wait till 8:30am tomorrow? Am I so reliant on being connected that I simply can't deal with being unconnected for one night?
Just a few years ago, I was using a landline and an answering machine. If you wanted to reach me, email was the safest bet -- because even if I wasn't home all day to check my messages, I would surely check my email a couple of times a day. A few years ago, I wouldn't have worried in the slightest if someone couldn't call me and reach me instantly. Hardly anyone had cell phones; no one expected me to be instantly accessible, and I expected it of no one.
Cell phones have insidiously caught us in a trap of expectations. It is expected that we are (generally) pretty reachable. Oh, sure, we may be in a meeting or on a date or in some other situation where we can't answer our phone right away. But if you really need to reach someone, you can call them a few times in a row to signal it's important or send them a text or something. If you leave a voicemail at 7pm, you can be pretty sure they'll at least get it before they go to bed. If it's important, you can reach them.
And if you can't, you get concerned. Or irritated. Or both. Why aren't they available? Why aren't they returning your phone call? Who gets to be unreachable for a whole night these days?
And so sitting on the bus, cell phoneless, I started to thinking about who might want to reach me tonight. Do I send them an email, letting them know my phone is at work? Is it or is it not the height of assumption to email someone to let them know "just in case they wanted to reach you," that they would have to do it via email? Who gets an email, and who do you assume you can just call back tomorrow?
I thought about the people I was supposed to call tonight. I thought about the people who I figured would probably call me, either because we talk every night or I thought we has something to discuss, or what have you. I thought about people who might call me for time sensitive work-related matters. (Political campaigns are unpredictable; just because you aren't normally needed ASAP doesn't mean you won't be tonight.) I thought about a person or two I have been hoping would call but don't expect to. (Though I'm sure tonight will be the night they do.) I thought about people I was hoping would not call, yet whose call I would not want to miss if they did.
And I don't even talk to people all that much at night.
Occasionally, just occasionally, I turn my phone off for the night. I turn it off, and I decide not to care who may call. Not because I'm in a meeting, not because I'm out with friends, but simply because I don't feel like being reachable. I want to be unavailable.
It's a little terrifying, actually. Terrifying, and freeing at the same time. To be a little selfish, to claim your time for you, to be available when and if you feel like it (and only when and if you feel like it). To take yourself out of the loop, just a little.
I can be, well, a bit of an anxious person from time to time. I worry about many a thing, and inconveniencing others unnecessarily or not being available when a friend needs me are two things I worry about a fair amount. (I mean, relatively speaking.) What I'm saying is that I am well aware that I perhaps have overanalyzed this cell phone situation a wee bit. (But seriously, what would I blog about tonight if I didn't have something to overanalyze?)
But if you think I'm totally nuts, here's a test for you: turn your phone off. Right now. Turn it off (and I don't mean on vibrate), put it in your bag, don't look at it until, say, noon tomorrow. And then tell me if you don't start thinking, just a little bit, about whose call you may miss.
A little terrifying, right? Just a little. But also a little freeing.
Sitting on the bus, weighing the pros and cons of going back to get my cell, I realized what a true test of my own sense of self-importance this situation is. Do I really think I am so important that the world will collapse if I can't be reached by phone for one evening? Is there any message I could miss that would be so dire that it couldn't wait till 8:30am tomorrow? Am I so reliant on being connected that I simply can't deal with being unconnected for one night?
Just a few years ago, I was using a landline and an answering machine. If you wanted to reach me, email was the safest bet -- because even if I wasn't home all day to check my messages, I would surely check my email a couple of times a day. A few years ago, I wouldn't have worried in the slightest if someone couldn't call me and reach me instantly. Hardly anyone had cell phones; no one expected me to be instantly accessible, and I expected it of no one.
Cell phones have insidiously caught us in a trap of expectations. It is expected that we are (generally) pretty reachable. Oh, sure, we may be in a meeting or on a date or in some other situation where we can't answer our phone right away. But if you really need to reach someone, you can call them a few times in a row to signal it's important or send them a text or something. If you leave a voicemail at 7pm, you can be pretty sure they'll at least get it before they go to bed. If it's important, you can reach them.
And if you can't, you get concerned. Or irritated. Or both. Why aren't they available? Why aren't they returning your phone call? Who gets to be unreachable for a whole night these days?
And so sitting on the bus, cell phoneless, I started to thinking about who might want to reach me tonight. Do I send them an email, letting them know my phone is at work? Is it or is it not the height of assumption to email someone to let them know "just in case they wanted to reach you," that they would have to do it via email? Who gets an email, and who do you assume you can just call back tomorrow?
I thought about the people I was supposed to call tonight. I thought about the people who I figured would probably call me, either because we talk every night or I thought we has something to discuss, or what have you. I thought about people who might call me for time sensitive work-related matters. (Political campaigns are unpredictable; just because you aren't normally needed ASAP doesn't mean you won't be tonight.) I thought about a person or two I have been hoping would call but don't expect to. (Though I'm sure tonight will be the night they do.) I thought about people I was hoping would not call, yet whose call I would not want to miss if they did.
And I don't even talk to people all that much at night.
Occasionally, just occasionally, I turn my phone off for the night. I turn it off, and I decide not to care who may call. Not because I'm in a meeting, not because I'm out with friends, but simply because I don't feel like being reachable. I want to be unavailable.
It's a little terrifying, actually. Terrifying, and freeing at the same time. To be a little selfish, to claim your time for you, to be available when and if you feel like it (and only when and if you feel like it). To take yourself out of the loop, just a little.
I can be, well, a bit of an anxious person from time to time. I worry about many a thing, and inconveniencing others unnecessarily or not being available when a friend needs me are two things I worry about a fair amount. (I mean, relatively speaking.) What I'm saying is that I am well aware that I perhaps have overanalyzed this cell phone situation a wee bit. (But seriously, what would I blog about tonight if I didn't have something to overanalyze?)
But if you think I'm totally nuts, here's a test for you: turn your phone off. Right now. Turn it off (and I don't mean on vibrate), put it in your bag, don't look at it until, say, noon tomorrow. And then tell me if you don't start thinking, just a little bit, about whose call you may miss.
A little terrifying, right? Just a little. But also a little freeing.
posted by Melissa at 8:37 PM
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