TALK TEXTER-VENTION
Smart Phones Numb Your Brain, Comma, Twist Your Tongue, Period, Exclamation Point
Just take me now
I strutted into her office with confidence. Surely she would immediately see I didn’t need her professional input.
Me? See a counselor?
I don’t have a problem.
Yes, I’ve had blips ampersand slight missteps, but nothing I couldn’t overcome.
A heavy musty smell, mixed with an assault of plastic or vinyl, greeted me at the shrink’s door.
Dr. Whateverhername tapped her №2 pencil on a pad filled with notes. Every button on her cardigan was neatly fastened to her neck.
Just a bit of her white cotton blouse, complete with a Peter Pan collar, showed.
Looking to curry favor, I complimented her bouffant hairstyle. “So pretty,” I said. For good measure, I threw in that her purple headband was a favorite color of mine, thumbs up.
Next to her sat a small, outdated press-button recorder.
I laughed to myself when I spied her antiquated flip phone peeking from the pocket of her aline skirt. Lost in thought, her hand reached down to caress it.
What an odd step back into time this was. I wondered if she had a rotary dial phone at home.
“Let’s cut to the chase, Lisa. Your friends and family are worried and from what I can tell, for good reason.”
I gave my best, ‘who me?’ doe eyes — my look of total innocence. To add emphasis, I raised my palms up and shrugged.
“Lisa.”
“You need to stop talk texting. Right here, right now.”
“Just stop.”
The immediate reactive twitch in my eye distracted me from my quivering lip.
This is bad.
“Shall we?” Her nubby cuticle chewed finger pressed “play.”
“Thank you for calling Ultra Professional Service, where life is serious and usually grave. Please leave your message after the beep.”
“Hi, my name is Lisa, and I’m returning Mr. Richardhead’s call period. Umm, I don’t know why I said that comma argh I am so sorry, exclamation point.”
Sigh.
“Dammit. Never mind, comma, I’ll call later, angry face.”
“Wait exclamation point. I wasn’t calling you an angry face Mr. Richardhead, exclamation point. I was trying to, uh, conjure up an emoji.”
Ugh, delete, delete, delete.
“Well, now that sounds pretty stupid as I hear myself say it out loud, comma, so I’ll hang up now, period.”
“Please disregard this message exclamation point, exclamation point, exclamation point.”
The counselor stared, unblinking, and her eyes bored into my soul.
Beads of sweat formed on my brow. My erratic heartbeat caused my body to twitch, ever so slightly.
“There’s only one option here. It won’t be easy.”
“Lisa, please hand me your phone.”
I squirmed in my seat.
God help me.
“But all my contacts, emails, and apps, exclamation point.”
Shiite.
I slid my iPhone slowly across the table with trembling fingers.
“We offer support, Lisa. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. Come back in 3 days so I can reevaluate you and determine your readiness to use a flip phone.”
“For now, use this.”
She handed over a crumpled brown bag and insisted I take it.
“I promise you, you’re not alone.”
Hyperventilating, I clutched my heart.
As her office door slowly swung closed, she shouted, “Have a great day.”
Her voice trailed off, attempting to muffle her words as she continued.
“Smiley face, exclamation point.”
A muffled curse escaped from her lips, but I heard it all.
I opened the bag.
Two cups and a string.
Shiite, exclamation point.
With the good, comma, comes the bad.
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