By MICKI BARE “Diamond in the Rough”
What do you do when your cell phone slips out of your grasp and ends up under the passenger seat while driving on the Interstate?
First, let me clarify so you understand I am talking about the passenger’s cell phone, not the driver’s. It is not safe to handle a cell phone while behind the wheel. Don’t text, talk, check e-mail, take pictures, look up an appointment, video chat or anything else your phone can do, while driving.
Now that we have that clear, what do you do when you are buckled in place and cannot reach the phone that gives you something to do on a long road trip? Keep in mind it would be unsafe to hit the driver in the arm when he comments on withdrawal symptoms you might be having 10 minutes into the ordeal.
If it was me, which I’m sure you’ve already deduced it was, I would begin reaching for whatever I could get my hands on in the vicinity of the area where the cell phone fell.
As we drove north around Washington, DC, I missed out on the distant sights of our nation’s capital. Rather, I was facing the underside of my seat as I stretched way down and reached as far as I could. I then proceeded to grab. By the time we exited I-95, I had unearthed a rear floor mat, two old receipts, the cap to a pen and something sticky resembling petrified foodstuffs.
As I cleaned my car, or at least a quarter of it, I began formulating a talking-to that my teenaged sons were going to get regarding borrowing my vehicle. I also began fantasizing about the clean-car years that were ahead once the boys all grew up and moved out.
Soon, images of clowns wearing purple shoes while flying over jelly-covered fields of corn interrupted my thoughts.
When I realized too much blood had rushed to my head, my legs were beginning to fall asleep and my right hand was swelling from trying to reach between the seat and the door, I slowly sat back up. After a few minutes, fully coherent and slightly less nauseated, I realized that I still had not retrieved my phone.
Hubby then suggested that it might have fallen out of our car, hit the road at 70 miles per hour and shattered into a billion pieces. I scowled and noted that the car doors and windows were closed. And since my vehicle is barely a year old, I had doubts that the floorboard was riddled with holes out of which the phone could have slid.
While I was not willing to admit that I was addicted to a credit-card sized chunk of metal, it was difficult to fend off thoughts that I might be missing an e-mail, text or call. What if the boys, who did not come with us on the trip, needed me?
What if the house caught on fire and they had no way to let me know that we needed to turn around and head home while frantically calling and e-mailing friends and neighbors for assistance until we arrived?
While I was deep in what-if thought, Hubby offered the sarcastically compassionate support indicative of a man who yearns to spend time with a wife otherwise occupied answering important work e-mails, texting guidance and support to her children and trying to beat her high score on Brick Breaker.
“You will get through this, darling. I will help you. I know how terribly difficult it is to be without your smart phone. Well, not from direct experience, but I can imagine.” His voice was soft and slow as he threw in the gentle hint that when we upgrade again, he’d really like a smart phone of his own.
“I’m perfectly fine. I don’t NEED my phone. I’ll just get it out when we stop for gas.” I’m sure he could sense that I was lying through my teeth and that I was soon going to mention I needed a restroom break.
It would have been easier to handle the phone situation had I brought some magazines, a novel or a word search book along for the ride. Snacking on an apple kept me occupied for a couple of minutes, but when I got to the core, there was nothing left to do.
That’s when I began criticizing Hubby’s driving. For our safety and the safety of those sharing the road, Hubby got an earful: Why are you so close to that truck? You need to get over, our exit is coming up. I thought the speed limit was only 55 through here. Is your blinker STILL on?
Although we had under two hours left before making it to our destination, Hubby suddenly needed to stop for gas. He wanted to top off the tank. And while he did, I could open the door and retrieve my phone, you know, just in case one of the boys needed to reach us.
Micki Bare is a columnist for the Arkansas News Bureau and the Courier-Tribune in Asheboro, N.C., and author of the book, “Relative Expressions.” She lives in Asheboro with her husband and three children. Her e-mail address is <a href=mickibare@inspiredscribe.com.
