Razor Sharp Wit

My history with cell phones is succinct. In ninth grade, my parents bought Hannah and I a brick cell phone. It was blue, but my dad referred to it as purple. This gave us leeway in that bratty teenager sense:

Dad: "Where's the purple phone?"
Us: "We haven't seen a purple phone."

I got my first flip phone at the tail end of the flip phone trend. It wasn't a Razor, like everyone else's. That was THE phone to get. But I was satisfied with my little Nokia flip... it even had a camera!

My phone for the last year has been, ironically, an old hot pink Razor. This is ironic because the phone was sold in 2005... and because I hate hot pink. Yet I'm not a picky person when it comes to phones. It stores 30 texts (whoa!) and about 12 photos (look out!).

I had made peace with my ridiculous cell phone. I'd learned to ignore the stares when I whip it out and text in a frenzy on my funny light-up buttons. But the other night at Old Navy, I was shamed to turn around and see the obnoxiously voiced, mousy, nosy woman on her cell phone... holding a Razor!

Instantly I knew it was time to look for a new phone. I couldn't have the same phone as someone like this, no way! And I certainly couldn't look like that when I talked on it, I looked like an audition for That's So Millennium.

I can't afford a new phone, of course, so I knew I'd be stuck with the Razor. But my Razor-hating thoughts apparently formulated into action. My charger quit. My battery died. I am Razor-less.

I'm trying to be grateful that I even have a cell phone. And I am, certainly. I'm taking these moments away from my Razor to become a stubborn fan of my Razor once again.

After all, if a phone was good enough for Jack Bauer, it's good enough for me.