Every eight to twelve months, I inherit my husband's old cell phone. He'll get a new one, so I'll get the one he just finished with. This little switch of ours is something Dwayne anticipates with great joy. I know this. It's the main reason I agree to switch phones with him in the first place.
Dwayne talks about the new phone he'll get for weeks leading up to the exchange. When the time comes, he brings home his new gadget with boyish delight, never seeming to have any trouble adjusting to the new technology.
I, on the other hand, look forward to this switch like one anticipates getting her teeth cleaned. New phones always present me with a serious learning curve. It's days before I return calls, since I can't figure out how to check my voice mail. It's months before I program necessary phone numbers into my phone's memory. I can't seem to find time to sit and type in names and numbers. It's about a year before I realize how to take pictures with my phone and then, inevitably, by that time, it's time to switch phones again.
In the picture above, Dwayne is programming his number into my phone's favorite five, whatever that is. He chose an icon that looks nothing like himself, so I get to laugh hysterically when he calls me and this man's face pops up on the screen.