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Ear
Piece
The
first time I saw a Bluetooth it was on the ear of one of my
daughter’s pediatricians. He is the only person I can imagine
carrying it off. Everything about him screams “I am a little
outrageous,” and that is why he is good at what he does. Warm,
verbal, thorough and loud, he didn’t look silly at all. He
just looked like my daughter’s pediatrician.
But I was in New York a few weeks ago and I saw a guy in the
hotel lobby walking around with a Bluetooth on his ear. He
didn’t look like my daughter’s pediatrician. He just looked
stupid. You blazing idiot, I thought. You’re probably some
yokel from Ohio trying to look all New York, strolling down
the lobby like you’re closing some deal. You’re probably talking
to your wife, back in Akron, driving home after the shift
change. And even with his Bluetooth he couldn’t hear me.
Can you believe I could be so nasty? All because some poor
schlub—and he may not even have been a schlub—had a Bluetooth.
There is nothing wrong with people from Akron or even the
whole of Ohio. There is nothing so special about being from
New York. So who was I to draw snap judgments about people
captive to unnecessary new gadgetry that just made them look
silly?
Let’s face it, nobody ever really looked good in Spandex running
pants back in the ’90s when people wore them. I had a pair
on loan from a boyfriend. He had the good fashion sense not
to wear them when he ran. I used to sleep in them. They were
so slippery I could just slide out of bed in the morning.
Sometimes I’d land in front of the mirror and just laugh.
Those pants were the best argument against running I could
have ever imagined.
But look, I’m wasting your time. I’m just stalling in order
to avoid the searing truth that:
1. First I had all these lousy thoughts about some poor guy
and his Bluetooth and . . .
2. A scant six weeks later, I own one myself.
In my own defense, let me say that I didn’t mean to do it.
Purchasing it was a sort of out-of-body experience. It was
only because of my children that I was in the Verizon store
on Monday in the first place. On Easter evening, as I was
leaving my office, my cell phone fell on the floor and spilled
all its guts. I brought it home to my daughters, as-is, figuring
that being a full generation younger than I am they would
know what to do.
Madeleine looked at the phone: “Get a new one, Mom. It’s time.”
“But
look. It just snapped open along this crevice here,” I indicated
the spot. “Just snap it back together for me. With that little
copper plate in the right place.”
“Mom,”
Linnea said, “That’s the chip, Mom. And it’s not in a part
of the phone that is supposed to ‘snap open.’ ”
“It’s
time to get a new phone,” Madeleine said curtly and went off
to do advanced conjugations of irregular French verbs.
“Really,
Mom. Get a camera phone,” Linnea said more softly than her
sister and went back to her Roman Civilization computer game
of which she is presently the new—and surely compassionate—Caesar.
So I was at the Verizon store Monday morning. I asked the
salesguy what I wanted and he told me. He told me what kind
of rebate I would get and the date on which I should mail
it in. He told me I could donate my old phone to a domestic-violence
program. He said nothing about a Bluetooth. Who knows what
came over me?
“And
these things here,” I said, “These are Bluetooths?”—not really
certain of the plural form. “What do they do?”
I spoke softly. There weren’t many people in the Verizon store,
but it’s always best to avoid the appearance of utter ignorance.
“They’re
just a hands-free device. They take the place of an ear piece.
No wires. Nothing like that.”
“You
mean you just put it on your ear and you can talk through
that?”
“Sure.
If you’re buying a Bluetooth-adaptable phone. Which you are.”
I thought about my ear piece, its wires reliably snarled up
in my sunglasses and housekeys.
“And
this one here,” I pointed, “This isn’t even a bluetooth,
is it?”
I was pointing at a pink one. If I were to buy a pink one
it seemed to me I would be making less of a commitment.
“I
guess you’ve got a point there,” he said.
And as if I were ordering the Bison Burger at the local diner,
I said “well, maybe it’s time I try a pink Bluetooth.”
What is there left to say? I promise not to wear it in public?
I promise not to coordinate my outfits to match it? Already
I have mistakenly called my Bluetooth a Blackberry, which
is a mistake anyone who enjoys berries might have made. Already
close friends are complaining that I sound ‘muddy’ on the
phone. Or too loud. (Yeah, loud and muddy. Right.)
Already my daughters have rolled their eyes so many times
they have vertigo.
Yes, I bought a Bluetooth. But I gave back the Spandex running
pants a long time ago. Things could be a hell of a lot worse.
—Jo
Page
jopage@graceniska.org
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