You may have noticed, if you know me in person, the rather personal place where I tend to keep my cell phone. Depending whether or not you use euphemisms, I keep my cell phone either “close to my heart” or “stuffed in my bra like a skank dollar dancer’s haul.”
I don’t expect you to fully understand. I don’t need your approval. Just know that the proverbial Waitress Wallet has become the preferred conveyance for my phone and, occasionally, other small items such as hotel key cards and iPod minis. Somehow that is just my way.
I can’t remember exactly when my phone first made it to second base with me. I think maybe once I wore something without pockets and had to put it down my shirt. I believe at least once I stuck it there absentmindedly. It just seeemed like a handy place. It is a handy place: one that you can easily reach (well, not you you, because that would be creepy) and just a tidier place for personal storage than jeans pockets or a purse. When folded, my phone has a fantastically streamlined, slippery outer shell that allows it to hurtle through space into other dimensions; there are portals to other worlds located in my purse and under the drivers seat in my car, and my phone is always in danger of slipping through them and winding up in the hands of the White Witch of Narnia, but as long as my phone is safely hidden away in the hills, I worry much less.
Sticking my phone down my shirt became more of a habit once I began to travel a lot this spring and summer. When I kept my phone in my bag, the only reliable way it could be located was when it turned up on airport security x-rays looking exactly like a laser-powered radar-jamming anthrax disseminator. Whenever I needed it for decidedly less terror-oriented purposes such as checking my voice mail or sending schmoopy text messages, it was a bitch to find. And then the night before I flew to Boston, my phone went missing; I had to stop packing and drive back to my office to look for it; I was making frantic plans to buy a new one in the morning, when I heard from a delivery driver who’d found it in the parking lot at work. After that I decided once and for all that knowing where my phone was at all times was more important than not looking like a right saucy wench with a bodice full o’ shillings. I never have to root around in my purse; now I glide around serenely knowing, with what you might call womanly instinct, that my LG C1500 is nigh.
Also? I never miss a call this way. Even when I’m somewhere noisy or crowded I know when I’m getting a call. I’d tell you how but some of you might feel this is too much information.
What? It’s not like I keep money in there. Not when I’m sober.
I guess some people are horrified by this, but it’s just a bra. It’s just a bosom. Ever since I’ve owned one I’ve been heartily encouraged to show it off and yet I’m not allowed to keep stuff in it? Not fair, I say. So enough with your silly double standards about female support garments, and don’t give me that look when I take a call. Let us be, me and my phone and its cozy mountain home. Thank you.