iLife.

It only took 32 years, but I am finally starting to understand the finer details of how the universe works. Terms like "what goes around, comes around", and "you get what you give" sounded stupid ten years ago, but resonate louder and louder the older I get. One lesson I have recently learned is how much a bad attitude can skew a situation. I only say this because I am pretty positive I am ruining my brand new iPhone because I was sure I was going to fuck it up long before I had even made the purchase.

I was a late bloomer, phone-wise. I had friends carrying clunky iPhones in 2007. The technology alluded me at first. The thought of checking e-mail, or watching that video where the monkey pees in his own mouth, while out at the bar at 2:30AM, was a concept that, for many years, I couldn't wrap my head around. This was mostly because 2007 was the year my mom handed me my first flip-phone while rolling her eyes at me. At first, I could hardly get the hang of texting, so never mind trying to figure out the semantics of downloading shit off of iTunes on the bus.

I had a natural resistance to the idea of smart phones from the get-go, but technology moves fast, and pretty soon strangers were making fun of my phone out in public. The homeless kids I work with all had significantly nicer phones than I did. It was about three years ago, following a particularly harsh razzing from street children, that I started considering the merits of a smart phone. No more drawing out complicated, messy maps on napkins when I wanted to go somewhere new. No more mental notes on shit to remember to Google when I got home. An entire universe of music and information in one tiny computer. There was only one thing holding me back: my complete and utter inability to trust myself with anything that cost $700.

This is where my shitty attitude comes into play. After only two months, my iPhone has a dainty scratch across the screen, and it probably wouldn't have happened if I just trusted myself in the first place.

For the first month, despite the fact that my monthly bill had just tripled, I hardly carried the phone at all. I was too scared to take it out in public, for fear of losing it, or getting it stolen, but after a stern talking-to by my tech-savvy boyfriend, I begrudgingly started carrying it daily. I put it into a fancy case, but was still 100% sure that I would drop it anyway. A month passes, and I was starting to get used to burying my face into it's tiny screen as I walked home from work, but my gut still told me to be careful every step of the way.

Then it happened. Of course, in front of several people. I had just hopped up onto a curb, about three blocks from my house, when I felt my feet slip from under me. Despite the fact that I have a very small distance to go to reach the ground, historically I tend to fall very, very hard. As I careened to the sidewalk, all I could think was "it's happening". In slow motion, I watched my phone slip from my palm and land on the pavement, screen-down. I landed on my knees, which both tore and scraped under the pressure. I had hurt my hand badly, but was not concerned for my own well-being. Instead, I said I silent prayer as I swept myself, and my phone, off the sidewalk. Please, please, please let this phone be okay. When I opened the case, there was the tiniest, barely noticeable scratch. I dragged myself home, bleeding and embarrassed, and made a mental note to not be such a self-defeatist from now on.

~sarah p.