Celebrations: The Precious, the Pretty and the Purple

I’ve collected the entire set. Last year I got my Part A Medicare card but that wasn’t enough of a birthday present so I bought myself a Macbook Air — The Precious. Last month, hearing that I had won a Rockower Award from the American Jewish Press Association, I got a new bike. A Fuji pretty one, same elegant flat gray color as my laptop.

And yesterday — ta da ta da — drumroll please, was iPhone day. We went to the Verizon store to buy a new battery for my dumb phone. Really, that’s all I had in mind. But $40 for a battery? For just another $160 I could have a whole new phone (not to mention a monthly $30 charge for the data plan).

Then I saw the perfect purple cover for said phone. I was hooked. For those of you who remember my techno-peasant stage, I’ve already spoken to Siri. She sent my first email announcing my purchase to Brook and Ethan.

Let’s backtrack a minute: “I don’t need a smartphone. I would be addicted to checking my email every second”; that’s what I’ve been saying. But I sorta knew when I walked into the store that I was in denial.

So I downloaded the app and played Whirly Words a few times last night. Nothing addictive. I’m okay. Years ago, I attended a booksellers’ convention in Las Vegas. All my colleagues were gambling like crazy, maybe even forgetting to attend authors’ panels.

Me, I dropped one quarter in the slot machine and won nada. That’s it, I figured. No winning no gambling. I don’t have time for this stuff.

Makes me think that I know the way. Also makes me wonder, what else have I been in denial about?

 

This entry was posted in Baby Boomers and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s