Sometime in 1984 in Atlanta, my then-dating parents rented and watched Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Steven Spielberg’s first alien movie, and if you’ve never seen it, then I’m about to spoil it for you.
The room above my bedroom is the Dropping Room, correct? I only say this because sometimes you take a medicine ball and drop it repeatedly for about 5-8 minutes (any longer would be too long), at which point you take a container of crayons or possibly sand and drop that, too.
What really gets me is that cellphones aren’t that old. In one generation we’ve gone from existing happily without them to wondering what life was like before them. It’s alarmingly fast, and a bit frightening. We treat our phones as natural extensions of our bodies, aware of our remaining battery life like we’re aware of how hungry we are — an elegant lie.