I decided to catch a mid-afternoon nap today. When I set the phone upon the bookcase next to the bed, it was working fine, bright and chipper, and when I woke up it had slipped away into the void.
I feel disconnected; cast adrift. My cell is my life-line to the rest of the world, my answering machine, my alarm clock, my watch, my address book, my toy for aimlessly passing the minutes when I am waiting for a bus to arrive.
It is also the only telephone I have. Rachael has her cell phone, of course, but she is off, earning money, and we don't have a home phone (what the technophiles have convinced us to call a land-line).
I planned to make a hotel reservation tonight. That will have to wait. I planned to call my daughter in Ohio. That will have to wait. I planned to call for pizza delivery, too, and now I will have to settle for a toasted cheese sandwich.
Most of all, I will have to wait until tomorrow to hurry to the phone store and arm wrestle some eager young clerk into submission, so that I can get a replacement without spending my grandson's college fund. Unless, of course, the current model comes back to life.
Quick; what's the acronym for electronics cardiopulmonary resuscitation?
