maybe I don't want to be contacted

Sometimes I think I should have an iPhone. I could text long missives (a huge improvement over the 20 one-liners I have shot out one-fingered in my WHOLE lifetime), surf the web in the car (not while driving, of course) and poke it like a mini Yellow Pages to find and call, say the local Bowling Alley to see if they have any lanes open before turning the ignition and heading over (which I watched my friend Emily do so nimbly Sunday night, and score, they did!).

It would be handy. It would be time-saving. It would launch me into the 21st century.

But I don't want one.

I have a pay-as-you go phone. Somewhere. The same phone, in fact, for the last four years. But I almost never use it. It's almost always out of battery or funds. And it really doesn't bother me.

It bothers other people, though. Occasionally my husband would like to contact me. The few random people who leave messages on it (sorry, Monica) would like to be called back. Friends and family can't understand how a busy freelancer can survive without one.

The truth is, I don't want to be contacted when I'm not at home. I wade through a hundred emails a day. I troll Facebook to see what everyone had for lunch and what my friends think about the latest scandal or tragedy. I scan Twitter to see if anyone famous has noticed me (just being honest people).

I am ready to divorce myself from the electronic age. I want a book and a beach. I want a month free to just chase my kids outside. I want the smell of glue and paint and dough. I want a break from sitting like a robot.

But, for now, I'm stuck on this computer. So, if you need to contact me send me an email. If you want to make my day, leave me a comment. But forget about calling or texting me, chances are very good that I won't answer.