Saying goodbye to my college sweetheart

As far as obscure psychological diagnoses go, Stockholm syndrome pretty much wins the… As far as obscure psychological diagnoses go, Stockholm syndrome pretty much wins the contest. It’s an unusual concept, really, that more or less describes how a hostage starts to sympathize or sometimes even fall in love with their captors.

Now, I spent my formative years in a place where I was required to justify my need to urinate, and I never once fell in love with the public education system, so you’ll have to forgive me for being a nonbeliever. My faith in my own infallibility, however, was shaken this summer when my cell phone contract expired: Only the most rigorous of medical theories could possibly explain the pain I felt at retiring my old cell phone, that wretched piece of shoddy engineering that had tortured me for two years, but one I had fallen so deeply in love with.

Like most major decisions in my life, I made this one based on looks – it had a shiny silver casing – and money – it was free after rebate. And it was tiny, which for me, was the best feature of all: A Samsung study had recently reported that a staggering 12 percent of women were “less likely to go out with someone who carries a big, bulky phone.”

There was no way that I was going to enter college with that kind of handicap. So I bought the phone and over the next two years watched my brilliant plan fall apart all around me. Instead of arousing passion in my female classmates, it invoked a deep maternal instinct, because whenever I casually whipped out my phone, I was met with choruses of “Awwww look at it! It’s sooo small!” That was not something I wanted to hear from a girl. Ever.

Trooper that I am, however, I chose to overcome this seemingly insurmountable obstacle by jamming it deep in my pockets at all times and running like a banshee out of the room whenever my phone rang.

The latter action served another purpose as well: It never allowed listeners to hear more than two seconds of my ringtone, which was “Waltz of the Flowers.” From “The Nutcracker.” A Ballet. Because I was too cheap to download any other songs – $1.99 scores me half a crouton at Sodehxo – and the other ringtones were, if possible, even more effeminate, my only other choice was vibration mode.

Aegis Client notwithstanding, my phone might have been the crappiest piece of technology conceived or created, but this little guy had a vibrating motor like a chainsaw. Getting a phone call was like getting a Taser to the inner thigh that, on more than one occasion, rendered me paralyzed and on my back, twitching uncontrollably.

It was a little better during the winter, when my many layers mitigated the crippling effects. The extra insulation, however, acted somewhat like an amplifier, resulting in even more awkward situations in which people around me eyed me suspiciously, wondering what kind of deviant machinery I was using to amuse myself during class.

Still, the worst thing was the phone’s unfortunate tendency to randomly phone home. I’m not joking: From my pocket, the phone would unlock itself, speed-dial my parents back in ol’ Hollidaysburg, Pa., and transmit any and all voices around it to the listener. If my parents didn’t pick up, as they usually didn’t (their phone didn’t vibrate like a jackhammer), all noise was recorded onto voicemail. And while I’m sure my parents were thrilled to be receiving clandestine reports on my activities, I’m sure hearing my roommates and I play “Never Have I Ever” wasn’t the highlight of their parenthood.

It was thus with a giant grin that I traded in my phone for a sexy LG flip-phone on July 24. But as the tech was pulling out the SIM card, I was overcome with grief and longing for my old phone. It wasn’t the phone that was the problem – it was me.

I had been destroying this relationship from the beginning. The phone had tried and cried for me, and I had just sat there, coldhearted, and watched the thing closest to me cry out for love, for any kind of attention. That vibration was not a mechanically generated oscillation but rather the not-so-silent screams of a tortured electronic existence.

I stood there in the at’t store lost in my memories, burning with regret. The phone had been my personal flashlight, alarm clock, projectile and awkward moment escape device since I had arrived in Pittsburgh, fresh faced and full of hope. On its own initiative, it had uglied itself up for me – it vibrated itself two feet off a table one day and cracked the screen – so no one would be tempted steal it.

Once, it even managed to secure a signal in the Cathedral basement, something that my new phone – or any phone, really – could never even hope to do.

Ever fallen in love with your portable electronics? Let Ravi know at rrp10@pitt.edu.