I am a terrible citizen of the digital age.
When we moved to Eastern Wyoming, Outdoor Guy and I bit the bullet and invested in personal cell phones for each of us. Our home phone is now also our business phone. I don’t mind answering his phone calls and acting as a part time secretary. But I really didn’t like the idea of snarking, er, talking about personal issues on a government funded line. It just didn’t pass my straight face test.
So now, I have a cell phone that is just mine. I can be reached any time, at home or away. Except that I can’t. More often than not, I will take the phone with me when I leave the house, only to leave it in the car upon my return. I don’t realize it’s not around because I only pay attention to the darn thing when it rings and I can’t hear it ring when it’s in the garage.
Then I’ll get some pointed Facebook messages or e-mails about how someone has been trying to reach me for ages. I’ll hunt down the phone, only to find it’s run out of battery. Ninety minutes later, the phone is ready but I’ve moved on to something else. Like taking care of my kid. Or cleaning house. Or watching videos of screaming goats on YouTube. You know, important stuff.
I guess I’m just not one of those people that feels the need to be reachable every waking minute of the day. So if you need to reach me, please be patient.
Or maybe try smoke signals.