The moment I saw my iPhone hit the layer of Hello Kitty bubble gum scented bubbles on top of the 98 degree water, I saw my life flash before my eyes.
First of all, yeah, I did just happen to pick 98 degrees out of a hat because of the Nick Lachey band. So what?
Second of all, I know the super hot ER doctor told me that for the sake of my vagina I shouldn’t use cheap bubble bath, but seriously? Bubble gum? I’ll take that risk.
Anyway, there I was, dancing around in the bathroom to new Kenny Chesney, plugged into my ear buds when — whoops — my pop and lock got out of control and busted the jack right from the hole. (Technical terms, people).
There went my phone, sailing through the air, and — bloop — right into the bubbling Hubba Bubba scented bliss-pot.
For a moment I stood there — naked and stunned — staring at the dangling white cord still swaying from the dance party, before reaching around and yelling a slow motion “NOOOOOO,” as I plunged into the tub after Siri.
I grabbed it and immediately bundled it in a hand-towel like a little baby Jesus. I didn’t grab rice, because in moments of panic the last thing you do is think about starches. I just sat there, cradling it against my chest like it was a frightened half-drowned daddy long legs.
And then . . . I put it down. I thought to myself meh, whatever.
It wasn’t even out of sheer exasperation — I was like meh over my apple product. Meh, I can get another one. Meh, they don’t charge me until next month’s bill. Meh, it’s just more money I don’t have. Meh, I can Facebook important people. Meh, Meh, Meh.
I was literally more Meh than miffed.
I read a “dating” article recently that explained then importance of the “fuck yes” law, basically stating that if you or another person aren’t all “fuck yes, I’m totally in,” that you’re wasting your time. Honestly, at the time I read it I was in total puppy love so I didn’t really realize it was actually talking more about life than dating.
But standing there — naked and stunned — in my bathroom, Kenny Chesney crooning country ballads into the riptide of my bathtub I realized that was it. If I was more Meh than miffed, what the heck was I needing the device for anyway?
I had a moment of fleeting freedom. I saw myself in Orlando, Florida with my $15 flip phone that I left on a toilet top in House of Blues one Sunday night. I saw myself laughing over pizza the next morning with people who I didn’t ever need a phone to get hold of. I saw myself dancing the night away under Tropical Storm Andrea (it was a thing that summer, Google it), and I saw myself not thinking for one brief moment that I would need to spend FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS on a new one.
Because I didn’t. Because I don’t.
I talked myself — in a span of 45 seconds — into thinking I was never going to use another iPhone again.
And when I uncradled my weeping daddy long legs from his baby Jesus swaddling . . . he worked.
So, clearly, I learned nothing.