At first, I was sad for being so clumsy and hopeful that the Treo wasn’t truly damaged. It looked good and I’d dropped it a couple times before without injury.
By the time I reached my car, I knew that the unit was truly broken. All its functions were fine (phone, email, etc.), but the keyboard wasn’t working completely. I couldn’t type 13 of my favorite 26 letters in the English alphabet. “Ths sx,” I thought, “nw, i hv 2 typ lk a IMr.”
No way. I’m not typing like an IMer. Somewhere there is a diploma on the wall that claims I studied English. I need all my vowels as much as I need all my bowels.
So, off went Treo — away for repair or replacement. What will happen to the Treo is not my first thought today: My first thought is what has happened to me.
Without the Treo vibrating on my belt, distracting me from my driving, threatening to sing during a meeting, meal or moment of meaning, I soon became more thoughtful, calmer, more effective. The technology had been keeping me in touch with everyone except the person right in front of me.
The first day, I itched for long-distance connection. Like an addict going cold turkey, I wondered where the nearest phone was. Then, I breathed deeply: I saw the opporutnity in having time out from long-distance connectedness. Ever since, I’ve been happier, more focused, more able to connect with people in front of me.
I know that I’ll soon have a working Treo. But I’m wondering why. Do I really want it? Are the interruptions worth the interruptions? Am I worth more to myself and all around me if I am not constantly available? Will I be able to keep my thoughts on something more important than, “I wonder if someone has sent me a message?”
The plan: keep the Treo in the briefcase, not on the belt. Check it occasionally.
For now: no Treo, more peace.