Renee, from Life in the Boomer Lane, gave some great advice about never taking your cell phone out in public, lest people know you are a geezer. Unlike some of my peers, I gave up my ancient phone (you know the kind that you can make and receive calls on? Nothing else.) I now have a smart phone, but once I take it out (provided, of course, I can remember where I last set the damned thing down), everyone knows I am a geezer. I haven’t a clue how to use it. Oh, I can answer it, sometimes, when I remember to slide the little green “button” to the right. Usually I figure it out before someone leaves me a voicemail. Which I haven’t figured out how to retrieve.
I get e-mails on my phone, allegedly. At least it says I have 191 e-mails. Don’t know how to retrieve those, either. I did stop by the phone store to have someone show me how, but the 11 year old (I swear) who was working there touched the screen a couple of times, mumbled something about “pop servers” and handed the phone back to me. The notification for the 191 e-mails was gone. Not sure about the e-mails. And pop was never served.
I could possibly text on my phone. The New Yorker recently published a list of text abbreviations and symbols Boomers could use in their texts. I happen to like T4W (Time for Whiskey) and WWIS (What Was I Saying?).
The only real problem here is, I have FTFFT (Fingers Too Fat For Texting). I recently managed to hit both the 4 and 6 when I was trying for the 5 when placing a call. I spoke to someone in New Zealand, I believe. The touch screen is incredibly small and is hard for me to type on while holding a magnifying glass in one hand.
Not to worry, my kids point out, I have auto-correct turned on (as if I knew how to do that). I tried to send a message to my sons, Pancho and Lefty. It went something like this:
Busy. Ruins evenly diy. Hit if bell. Liver yip bath. Murder.
What I was trying to say was: Boys, Rains every day. Hot as hell. Love you both. Madre.
I want my geezer phone back.
