Yesterday was the big day. I traded off my trusty old ThunderBolt for a Galaxy 6. For some of you such transactions may not be traumatic. They might even be fun. Good thing I remembered to load up on stupid pills before leaving the house.
They don’t speak English in phone places. It’s a cross between tech-speak and smart-a_ _ 20-something. It’s like people peering through opposite ends of a telescope. What I see down at the small end is someone with zits speakingsofasti’mafraidtoblinkmyeyes. From their end they see someone unbelievably old who keeps staring at them with a mixture of caveman ignorance and pure terror.
One studly young man laughed out loud at my old phone, informing me (and the general area within a block of where I was standing) that my phone was unimaginably old, that it must have been the rage back when dinosaurs roamed, that he was just learning to drive when the phone came out, and so on and on and on, to his delight. He was so funny he could hardly stand it. When I told him the store shouldn’t have sold it to me, he said he didn’t work there then. So much for snappy repartee. Lesson learned: never talk to anyone when they’re under 25 and you’re under the influence.
Being an astute planner, I had taken along a printout of passwords, knowing I’d be asked and knowing the stupid pills would be in full effect by then. Perfect. Not a one of the passwords I needed was current on the list I took. I’ve changed them all since I printed that one. Zip. Nadda. Duuuuuumb.
Two hours and thirty minutes later I walked out with my E$#&##&$^%f new phone, sent home to complete the transfer of files from the old to the new. I pouted most of the evening. I hate my new phone. I hate technology. I hate change. My life is ruined forever. I have half a notion to go back to the store and steal all the technicians’ lollipops. Better yet, I’ll egg the store with pterodactyl eggs. They were the rage back when I bought my ThunderBolt.