I dropped a casual reference to using an iPhone in yesterday’s article on my adventures in cognitive behavioral therapy (called Emotional Tetris, for those who are interested). This is notable in that I’ve been a diehard Blackberry user since 2009 (with a brief, disappointing fling with Android) and have more than a few times taken potshots at the Apple herd. So what’s with the change of heart?
Victoria had a freak snow storm about two months ago, during which time my territory of Fairfield (a delightful little seaside hamlet full of retirees, yogis, and a graveyard where a few local heroes of old are buried) was blanketed in white. As I find snowfall to be weirdly uplifting, I’d decided to walk, noticing as I went a white iPhone on the sidewalk a few blocks from home. I have odd reflexes for finding stuff, ranging from a Japanese passport in a trashcan downtown to fifty dollar bills in Vancouver, so this somehow doesn’t raise an eyebrow for me too much.
Usually I surrender my findings to their most appropriate places, and so pocketing the phone for the time being, I figured I’d plug it in at home and wait for missed calls to pile up — at which point I’d answer and
demand a ransom repatriate the device with a friend of its owner. Not an easy feat without cellular service though, and I soon found out this was the case; the iPhone’s subscription was cancelled, oh, about a week earlier, according to the last notification “Ella” had received on her Instagram account. Well, time for a little sleuthing.
I persuaded a former casual date — one of the many women in Victoria who like me so much they wanna be “just friends” — to message this Ella
Not having Instagram (because of the Blackberry; hello, no apps?) I persuaded a former casual date named Sonja — one of the many women in Victoria who like me so much they wanna be “just friends” — to message this Ella and tell her that random dude here had her phone. She did, and waiting for a reply, we browsed through her publicly-viewable albums, grimacing at the wannabe-sexy photoshoots of what we assumed was the owner, who looked to be eleventeen, and, (at risk of sounding way more parental than I care to) probably shouldn’t be posting that kind of stuff. “Maybe we’d better hold onto that phone and teach her a lesson,” Sonja mused. I sniggered.
A month went by, and no response. Then two months. Still nothing. I figured by now, the loss of the white 4S had probably been used as a pretext to upgrade to a phone with better Instagram filters, if anything, to simulate being older. So, I gave up, popped in my SIM card and claimed it for myself.
A week of using the most popular phone brand on earth, I realize things are popular for a reason, even if those reasons are simplicity — to the point of being dumbed-down — and connectivity — to such a level of ubiquity that you can suitably numb any personal loneliness knocking at the door. I miss my keyboard, but sometimes you’ve just got to move on with the times, even if in my case it means adopting a device as the tenth anniversary of the brand looms on the horizon. What can I say? I’m a late to the party kind of guy.