Once upon a time, my sister’s cell phone snapped in half and had to be replaced. Immediately she cashed in on the upgrade available on our Verizon family plan.

It was supposed to be mine, but what did I care? I had a phone that worked fine. “Let her have the upgrade.” Famous last words.

Shortly after, my phone had a sudden heart attack of its own. Were it a cartoon character, its tongue would have flopped to the side of its mouth and black Xs would have appeared where the eyes should have been. It worked, sort of, when hooked up to the charger. But I could not continue to live my life within 12 inches of an electrical outlet.

And yet, with an upgrade no longer available, it was my only option. It looked like I would have to transfer my contacts and information to an old cell phone that happened to be lying around the house — a massive black Samsung that weighed at least 65 pounds. The phone was cumbersome, ugly and programmed with a variety of shrieking, beeping ringtones designed to give grandma a stroke. But finally, I gave in and transferred the contacts from my tiny, shiny KRZR to the brick.

I had no choice but to conduct my life “I Hate the ’90s”-style. The KRZR was not the hippest phone on the block and it certainly was not the best the 21st century had to offer, but it was a lot more efficient than the new guy.

Back in the ’90s, it took at least half an hour to complete a mundane task like setting an alarm. Ensuring a wake-up entailed the following steps: Hit “Menu.” Press two buttons to get to “Settings and Tools.” Press a button to get to “Tools.” Press the No. 4 to get to the alarm clock. Turn the alarm on. Enter the time manually (meaning, curiously, you can ask the alarm to go off at 77:70 p.m. ). Select “a.m.” or “p.m.” Set the frequency and set the ringer to “Melody” rather than “Tone.” I do not care to know what the difference is. Finally, press save.

Seriously.

In addition to that trouble, I now own a flip phone that cannot be flipped open very quickly. It is so weighty that I have to really dig my thumb in and huff and puff and push until it creaks open.

If the ’80s were about aerobics, the ’90s were about techno-bics. Phones, computers and even cars were so oversized then, it was a workout just hauling them around.

I do not miss those days, but it seems they have missed me. More than anything else, my friends’ taunts caused me the most grief. This summer, when I got the dumbbell, they all had just gotten new iPhones or the LG enV WXYZ. Naturally, they spent a few hours pointing this out to me.

The Samsung was initially greeted with cries of, “Ooh, you got a new phone!” Then came, “Didn’t you?” And finally — with furrowed eyebrows ­— “What phone is that?”

I would usually reply that I was not quite sure but, “Hey, look at this huge red light that blinks spastically when I get a new text! Now that’s handy!”

Usually the laughter began at this point.

Yes, VH1 represents the ’90s as the days of hilarious television shows, creepy child actors and athletic glory, but for me, they were the days of my elementary and middle school education, when I was too busy getting punched in the face by a tetherball to catch very many episodes of “Full House.”

Therefore, what we have here is not a quaint flashback to a happy childhood, but rather, a forced reminder of playground misery. Basically, the phone is oversized, inefficient and now it might put me in therapy. And really, you don’t get more ’90s than therapy.

Or maybe this phone is like therapy, in some twisted way. After all, it’s easy to mock and overpriced. It forces me to slow my life down. The time I spend trying to flip it open or scrolling through lists of settings or defending myself is time I would otherwise spend scurrying to my next meeting, hurrying through the dirty dishes or fooling around on Facebook.

The phone makes me stop and smell the smoke in South Oakland. When it’s not making me late.

Don’t call Carolyn. E-mail her at [email protected].