Ye Olde Flip Phone

This is my fourth week with a flip phone. My “unintelligent” cellular phone is manufactured by Nokia, and the phone’s primary selling feature is that it sucks.

Service is spotty. The screen is the size of a Cheez-It. But there is one plus. The phone has an FM radio feature. You can listen to the radio, but only if you hold the phone to your ear like you’re making a call.

Oftentimes, my wife will find me with phone pressed against my ear, wearing an urgent look on my face, and she’ll ask in a whisper, “Who are you talking to?” Whereupon I’ll cover the mouthpiece and say, “I’m listening to talk radio.”

It is technically possible to send texts with this “dumb” phone, but this is such a painfully tedious process that, frankly, you’d be better off using Western Union.

Usually, texting is such a pain in the astronomy that I end up calling the individual. Which sometimes takes people by surprise. Apparently voice calls aren’t common anymore, inasmuch as whenever I call someone people assume something is wrong.

“Omigod,” the person will answer the phone. “Is everything okay?”

“Sorry, my phone won’t text. Surely you don’t mind me calling.”

“Not at all. And don’t call me Shirley.”

Of course, this is only a sample conversation provided someone actually ANSWERS their phone. Which they usually don’t. Probably because whenever I call they don’t know it’s me. This is due to the fact that my name now shows up on caller ID as “Rene Birdfield.”

I don’t know who Rene Birdfield is. I don’t know if she is a real person. But somehow ever since switching phones my service provider has transitioned to identifying me as Rene.

The following is a verbatim transcript of an actual phone conversation with our plumber:

ME: Hi, I was calling about our appointment to look at our garbage disposal.

HIM: Hold on, let me check my notes real quick, Ms. Birdfield.

ME: Ha ha. No, I’m not Ms. Birdfield. You can just call me Rene.

Perhaps the weirdest thing I notice about going smart-phone-less is how many times I find myself in groups of people who are staring at phones—the supermarket, doctor’s waiting room, an elevator. Everyone usually peeks at me like there’s something “off” about me. Then they edge away, clutching their child’s hand.

Truthfully, I feel pretty stupid just standing there, with nothing to look at, staring into space. Sometimes, I’m not entirely sure I’ve done the right thing, giving up my device.

If I’m being honest, I feel lonely without my old phone. I feel left behind. I must appear pretty boring compared to other people I see in public, importantly tapping away on their phones. Without a fancy phone, I don’t feel nearly as important.

But then I must remind myself, I’m doing all this for my own mental health. I’ve given up my device to regain focus. I want real conversations again, unpunctuated by glances at my screen.

In short, I want to use a smartphone, not be used by my smartphone. Because I am a human being. I am an analog person. I am ideas, dreams, and creativity. And above all, I am Rene Birdfield.