Untethered
I stepped out of the BART car, having slouched from Fremont to my downtown Oakland transfer point. As I stood on the platform, I patted myself down in my daily ritual and as I did I realized what the muted thunk I'd heard 10 minutes or so earlier was. I turned in time to see the train leaving the platform, with my cell phone on it. My cell phone with everything that I need at my fingertips. On a train. Headed to Richmond. Without me.
There was the cold panic, the bargaining, the rushing upstairs to ask about lost and found, and the profound realization of how useless that was. There was self-flagellation: I had looked back to make sure I hadn't forgotten anything, but hadn't patted down; what was I in such a rush for? That peaked after getting to the apartment and realizing I had no way to contact anyone or even text or call myself to beg whoever had the phone to return it. And the long evening.
I went to bed last night and reminded myself that I had only had a cell phone a short time. That there was a time when I resisted the pressure to get one, and to be contactable all the time. I reminded myself that it's only a phone. How many other leashes have been attached to me without my feeling it?
So now here I am, without a phone, trying to get the old one disabled remotely and feeling strangely adrift. I try to remember that sometimes drifting isn't so bad.