I don’t know what has happened to me in the past few years—ahem, boyfriend, ahem—but I have now developed a full-on fixation, obsession, physical yearning for the latest gadgets. My gimmies have gone from focusing on new jeans or fabulous four-inch heels to cell phones, laptops, TVs, external hard drives, for goodness sake. In particular, I want the HTC Evo 4G like Ross wanted Rachel, like Mrs. Robinson wanted Benjamin Braddock, like Lady Gaga wanted fame—singly-minded.
I know that much of this comes the fact that I CAN’T HAVE IT. Or rather, that Sprint won’t allow me to have it in the cosmic sense. My name is on 4 wait lists; I bought one from a seller on e-Bay that turned out to be less than legit (yes, I returned it for a full refund); I have harassed staffers of Sprint Stores, Best Buys and Radio Shacks; I have had three near-misses. And even as my loathing of Sprint grows for having produced a limited release of what must have been 14.5 handsets in JUNE, so too does my Heathcliff-on-the-moors desire grow. The more it rejects me, the more I want, nay, need it.
It is as if I were in 5th grade all over again. This is unrequited love at it’s preadolescent finest. But not for the cute blond boy in my homeroom. No. I have an epic crush on the Evo: “Will you go out with me? Yes. No. Maybe. (Circle one.)”