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First of all, this is not an indictment. The events herein pertain only to a decision I made for myself. I hold no judgment against those who make contrary decisions.
It started at ShoeBooties Cafe. I love that place, with its train car set up and the way the hard wood creaks out its age. About a month ago, I was in there with my twin; we slid into our booth and sipped wine while eating large quantities of food out of their space-age looking bowls.
My sister is a stickler about cell phones. She finds those who use them at the table to be acting in poor taste. Which is to say, she found me acting in poor taste.
“Put away your phone,” she instructed. Because she is the boss of me, I put it away. After a few phantom grabs, I forgot about it entirely.
I wondered how often I escape into my phone without even noticing it. What was I gaining from these vacant swipes? What was I missing in real life? I decided to find out. I made a commitment to not use my phone when I was in front of a tangible human for a full month.
I practiced at Ingles; when I shuffled into a promising line – and they all look promising during the recon – I pulled out my phone by habit. Then I remembered my experiment. I sighed and put it away.
The whole world could have crumbled in the time it took me to bag and drive home. But it didn’t. As a bonus, I heard the cashier tell a customer that her grandchild was coming for a visit. They planned to make peanut butter cookies together.
I went to a friend’s house for cocktails. I used my phone for music on the way there but banished it to the car upon arrival. I never missed it. There was not one time I thought, “Abigail, stop laughing around the table so you can take a picture of yourself laughing around the table.”
At home that night, snuggled into bed under floral sheets and the lingering effects of the party spirits, I opened my phone to discover I had missed nothing. The people I follow on Tik Tok and happily got along without my witty commentary.
And so it went for the prescribed sanction. I discovered that if I got a voicemail, I could call
back when I was able to fully engage. There wasn’t one text message that was threatened into extinction because I offered a delayed response.
It seemed my place in the ether was neutral. My absence was as innocuous as my presence. But the time I spent with three-dimensional folks was altered.
I attended the Cherokee County Fair, for example, and wandered among the artisan stalls and the squealing children with my head un-hunched. I took in the events with full focus.
A child dropped his blue sno cone and his father scooped him in a hug, offering his own as a replacement. A police officer helped an older gentleman navigate the un-level terrain near the entrance. A baby cried inconsolably as two tired parents passed her back and forth, all three of them seeking a respite.
And, yes, these things would have happened without my observation, but the point is: I was present. I was awake and aware. My mind joined my body and together, we experienced a full month without interruption or distraction from a screen world that doesn’t smell or cry or love.
Unaccountably, I felt that time slowed during my month. I exhaled, read magazines in waiting rooms, and smiled at dogs led by hunched-headed humans.
I celebrated my month back at ShoeBooties.
I glanced around at my lunch mates. Three couples seated across from me were on their phones but for one person. One woman, in a flannel shirt, actually held her phone midway between the table and her ear the entire meal. Was she threatening him to up his game or she would reject him for the screen?
Another man, wearing an “oldies but goodies” T-shirt – and this is a separate topic but can we dress up for lunch again? – consumed his phone the entire meal. His partner looked around and, once, caught me eye. We nodded. That one connection was more meaningful than her experience with her partner the entire meal.
Yes, there are wonderful things about technology. But I’m going to reinforce my new habit of listening to the person in front of me. I won’t discard their attention if something juicier dances across my screen because there will always be something juicier dancing across the screen.
My screen life started to feel frivolous with its hyperlinks and empty promises of fulfillment through diversion. I rediscovered the joy of touchable interaction.
I don’t want feel like an audience member in my own life. I’m actively seeking fellow Luddites who want to dance with me in real time. We can step on each other’s toes and dance like no one is watching – because no one will be.
Abigail Blythe Batton is a staff correspondent for the Cherokee Scout. Her column runs every other week. Email her at abigailhickman44@gmail.com or leave a message at 837-5122.