If I were a boy, my life would be a hell of a lot easier. Among countless other things –… If I were a boy, my life would be a hell of a lot easier. Among countless other things — including being able to allot far less time to the process of getting ready to go out — if I were a dude, I surely wouldn’t have to worry about my cell phone falling out of my back pocket and landing squarely in the toilet as I’m sitting down to use the bathroom. If I could remain standing to take care of business, such a horrific even would never have transpired.

Unfortunately, my luck runs right up there with that of the kicker for the Jets. Since my cell phone went for a swim, I’ve been cut off from humanity.

As pathetic as that sounds, my return to the Stone Age, pre-cell life sucks the big one. Because my roommates and I decided a landline was an unnecessary expense not worthy of our hard-earned booze money, I’ve been disconnected from all those I have programmed into my phone, along with every other establishment accessible by telephone.

Normally, a few days sans “cell” could be viewed as a character-building way to simplify the excessively accessible lifestyle upon which I have become overly dependant.

But I couldn’t have dunked that sucker at a worse time. The day after I mistakenly tested my phone’s buoyancy, I intended to drive home five hours on that godforsaken turnpike, whose rates rank right up there with the pricing on the latest line of clone-gear found at Abersnobby and Rich.

This wasn’t a foreseen trek back to the land of real cheese steaks. My grandmother passed away earlier in the week, and I needed to go home to attend the viewing. My mother was immensely understanding of my overwhelming, nearly finals-week caliber academic responsibilities, and assured me it wouldn’t be frowned upon should I decide to stay at school. For once in my life, I decided to go the unselfish route and make an appearance — if for no other reason than to comfort my mom.

Upon hearing my tale, my roommate generously offered me her car to drive home so that I wouldn’t have to start walking at that very moment to ensure my timely arrival. For a brief moment, it looked as if I actually had a legit plan, and it would be smooth sailing upon my Sunday morning departure.

That’s when I confused my damn phone with Michael Phelps. After uttering a blood-curdling scream that could easily be mistaken for that of a woman giving birth, I had to face the cold, hard fact that my cell had succumbed to the same fate as those stupid goldfish I’d owned as a kid.

Inconveniencing my extremely tolerant roommates again, I borrowed their phones to alert the masses (read: my parents) that I was indeed alive; I just wouldn’t be able to be contacted easily until my phone was replaced. While speaking with my dad, I admitted to him that I wasn’t completely comfortable with the idea of driving someone else’s car — which made sounds eerily similar to those of go-kart — for five hours in the winter, especially when the majority of the drive was spent in areas lacking the basic elements of civilization.

This is not the kind of information a concerned father likes to hear from his baby girl. After attempting to assure himself and me that I’d be OK driving the next day, I hung up, only to be called back in a few minutes. After consulting my older, wiser and much more reliable sister, Dad decided he was much more comfortable with the notion of my switching planes than he was with my switching lanes. He was going to book me a flight home.

Rare is it that man sleeps more soundly with his spawn 30,000 feet in the air than securely on the ground. But he has more faith in the airports that I know like the back of my hand than in my commandeering someone else’s wheels minus any means of communication.

Once safely back on the ground in eastern Pa., I immediately proceeded to the nearest AT’T Wireless store. After being given a new battery and a warning to “keep the phone away from the john,” it was as if the heavens opened up and the “Hallelujah Chorus” was echoing through the store. I was back in business but still mystified and disturbed at the fact that my cell phone has taken over my life as I know it.

Colleen Bayus strongly advises to keep all electronics out of the bathroom. E-mail her at [email protected].