As I write this now, I am pacing around my house with an autumn orange delivery slip clenched tightly in my hand, waiting for the moment that one of my friends returns so I can get a ride to the post office. Such are the problems that those without cars must deal with. I received a delivery slip because the mail carrier could not deliver the parcel. The parcel that made me jump out of bed unnecessarily early this particular morning, just in case she decided to deliver the mail early on this particular day. The same parcel that led me to check the mailbox two or three times within my first 15 minutes of being awake. I poured myself a bowl of cereal, confident that five or ten minutes wouldn’t make a huge difference. That’s when I got the slip, figuratively and literally, of course. Freshly rolled out of bed, I certainly did not look ready to take on the day, let alone go outside. But that’s where I found myself, standing in old gym shorts and a pair of slippers, asking if she had my mail. I felt I should go back inside and pour myself a glass of Sanka.
What led to this response? My new phone came in the mail. But no, it’s not just any phone. It’s an iPhone. But no, it’s not just any iPhone. It’s an iPhone 5. Half an inch bigger, more memory and a Siri function that does way more than only tell lame jokes and sly comebacks. Chock full of cutting-edge features that other phones already had, connected to a 4G network that every other smart phone already uses, with a screen touted to be big enough to watch movies. It’s everything I could possibly ask for.
Next to my computer sits a cup of tea and my old phone. I got that bad boy during my freshman year, way back in 2009. I thought it was pretty nifty, but even when it was new, friends kept asking why I didn’t get an iPhone. The new iPhone 3G had just come out and everyone wanted one. The 3G was the second model Apple produced, but it says three? Shouldn’t my new phone be an iPhone 6? When I was in preschool and learned to count, I thought it went one, two, three and so on. But then again, it’s Apple. My counting method may just be too mainstream.
My friend should be back in 20 minutes. The realization that when my dad asked for my mailing address and I forgot to include my apartment number makes my homicidal urges against the mail carrier lessen, seeing how it is my fault I don’t have my iPhone 5 (though it should be 6) with me right now. How foolish of me. I got caught up in the excitement, deluded by anticipation, gone crazy for a box of aluminum, plastic and glass that is now 18 percent thinner than the previous model. I can’t wait to plug my headphones into the bottom of the phone, instead of the top. I am giddy with excitement by the idea that I can have another row of icons on my main screen. I’m so happy, I don’t even care that the charger is completely different and I won’t be able to use it on any iPod dock. Okay, that last point I still haven’t gotten over. But who cares; for the first time in my life, I am a smartphone owner. But not just any smartphone. An iPhone.