Farewell

Good-bye sweet Razor.

You were cutting edge when we first met back in 2006 {2007?} but I guess things have changed a bit.  Last night Alex brought home your successor.  {I’m hoping this means that the “2006 {2007?} called and they want their phone back” jokes will end?}

Yes, I’m being forced to join 2009 and all of the “features” that come with it.

Dear Razor, I won’t forget you.  Your small slim frame – a big selling point – made it so easy to slip you into a coat or jeans pocket.  That same feature also caused me to lose you repeatedly, but I don’t blame you.  I’d hear from others that they had tried to call me, but you silly phone were always playing games with me.  Sometimes you would ring and other times you weren’t up to the task.

You were quirky.  The same was true for your battery.  We went through three.  I was patient – I knew we would find one that you agreed with.  It wasn’t important that some days it would run out in two hours and other times it would stay charged for days.  Predictability, reliability – who needs it?

You had your own agenda and I liked that about you.  Voice mail too was hit and miss.  Sometimes you would keep messages to yourself for days.  Only when the time was right, would you share them.  Perhaps you were simply teaching me not to become too reliant on technology?  And texting?  We never fully explored this part of our relationship.  Go figure – apparently it’s all the rage, and not the “fad” we both thought it was. But we chose not to take part in that because really, who had the time to type out a message {click, click, click, finally reaching the right letter, click, click, click…} when it was just easier to pick up the phone and call?  {That is if you weren’t “hiding” at the time.}  As for e-mail and the internet?  We both agreed that’s what computers are for.  I just recently learned that this is not true.

You were stubborn. {A trait we both shared.}  You didn’t like change {again, something in common!}  When it was time for you to give up your SIM card last night and officially retire, Alex asked me how to get it out of the phone.  “The phone won’t open on its own” I explained, “you will have to drop it on the floor – it will open up that way.”  One funny look and a half-hearted drop later I told him, “No, you have to drop it like you mean it.”  He did.  And you cooperated.  We knew each other well and accepted the things that made us unique.

I will miss you dear Razor.  You have been good to me.  But Alex has promised that this new “phone” will make my life “so much easier.”  {Does it do laundry?  Dishes?}  I’m guessing that he is hoping I will use the handy calendar feature, and perhaps give texting a try.  {Apparently he doesn’t like it when I try calling five times in a row while he is sitting in a meeting.  While that may be my code for “its really important that I talk to you – RIGHT NOW” some find it rude.}

And you dear Razor?  Perhaps you will find happiness in the hands of a younger generation.  {Or not.}  But I do thank you for sacrificing yourself and serving as a distraction from my new phone {with which drool does not agree with.}

Yes, it pains me to retire my phone that does still work.  I’m frugal at heart.  {High-maintenance frugal, Alex would call it – and yes, the two can happily co-exist.}