It didn't really occur to me just how outdated my phone was until my mom decided I was now an "adult" and would be paying for my own cell phone bill. I had had the pink Motorola Razr since I was a senior in high school, a solid 5+ years. Now, if anything, I'd say it was a testament to the Razr's strength and durability that it held up as long as it did. It went with me to college, lived with me in Scotland, and even started my first real job with me. I'd become attached to my little pink flip phone. It could text, it never dropped calls, and it refused to break upon being repeatedly dropped (even in a puddle outside Nordstrom Rack during a pre-Holiday shopping frenzy). It was my little rosy confidante.
Or so I believed.
About a month ago I was invited to a global 5C happy hour in the city. At this point in my post-Pomona life, turning down a social invitation was (and is) not an option. No matter how far, I was without a doubt hauling ass to the city for the chance to mingle with people my own age. If I was lucky, maybe I'd be able to reminisce with someone about the glory that is Pub and the joy only fellow Pomona-ians could know when they check mymail and know they've received an email security alert warning them of flashers or flying tortillas.
The trip to the city was simple enough. I got turned around walking from the train to the bar but only overshot it by a block. And the happy hour was pleasant and worth the $4.50 L fare. I saw some old friends I hadn't seen since May and the beer only cost me $2.00. Overall, I'd say I was coming out ahead.
Now before we get any further, let me fill you in on a not-so-secret secret of mine: I love taking the "L". Where other people may have thought it exciting and grown up half a decade ago, the novelty still hasn't worn off for me. Perhaps this is where things took a turn for the worse. Over-eager to get back on the gritty train, taking Chicago's public transit by storm, heading north towards Suburbia, I got on the Red Line around 8 PM, which should have taken me North and back home in under an hour.
I chose a seat towards the back of one of the cars and pulled out the latest issue of Cosmo, scrolled through my iTunes to Willow Smith, and waited for the train to leave. I glanced up a few times in between articles and noticed that the train was traveling along the highway. To anyone else even remotely aware of the geography of the city of Chicago or of the CTA's routes, this should have been wholly alarming. I, on the other hand, chocked it up to a change of routine. I figured we had to be going North (though on what basis I believed that, I couldn't tell you), and went back to reading. It was only after about twenty more minutes and the lack of white, underaged hipster-looking Northwestern students on the train did I realize that I was horribly, horribly mistaken. At that moment, the train came to a stop and four college-aged guys entered all wearing Sox gear. Oh, sh*t.
I was at Comiskey.
For those of you who don't know, or who are not from Chicago, instead of heading North I was heading very, very Southwest and to not the friendliest of areas. While silently panicking, I gathered up my things and bolted through the doors before they could close. There I found myself standing, in what I now decided had been poorly-chosen bright pink high heels, on a raised platform in the middle of a four lane highway. All of the stranger danger lessons I had been taught in the first grade came rushing through my mind: don't get into strange cars with tinted windows, only go to houses with the happy McGruff dog in the window, don't eat the homemade Halloween candy! Crap, clearly my knowledge would be a waste here.
Then I realized I had my phone. Whipping out (and flipping open) my pink Razr I was immediately filled with a sense of impending doom. In my time of desperation, my phone could provide me with literally nothing. The most it could do was call 911, but with my obscenely poor sense of direction, how would I even be able to tell them where I was? And that's when I realized: I had been abandoned. Left in the cold to fend for myself, my phone was no asset to me. Texting my college roommate wasn't going to save me from my inevitable kidnapping that would occur if I stayed on this platform much longer. I looked down at my pink Razr, the phone that had been with me through so much, the phone I had refused to believe was useless when everyone was telling me to upgrade, and I whispered,
"You little bitch."
This past weekend, I got the new iPhone. And it has Google Maps.
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