Two years ago, I bought a Bluetooth. This wasn’t the courageous act of a middle-aged woman striving to master the latest in cell phone technology. It was the last hope of one whose ears were incompatible with anything else. Regular hands-free devices left me deaf to the other party and caused chronically inflamed ear cartilage. This, coupled with frequent episodes of seatbelt entanglement, forced me to entertain options I’d long rejected. When I got the Bluetooth home, I gave it a wide berth; but eventually, need prevailed. I jammed it into my ear and was surprised at how comfortably it fit. Before I knew it, I was gabbing with family, friends, and any unfortunate stranger who called me by accident.
I had a stronger relationship with that Bluetooth than with two-thirds of the men I’ve dated. When it went missing, I was devastated. I’ll spare you the hands-free/Bluetooth trials I endured over the subsequent two years. But cleaning out my car the other day, I found the old Bluetooth buried under a pile of crap. My heart sang. Now I just had to pair it with my phone.
One day and ninety-four pairing attempts later, my phone refused to acknowledge, no less couple with, my Bluetooth. The Bluetooth that had once filled my orifice with such comfort and ease. Granted, it had been awhile; but I was shocked that my phone could, or would, sabotage such intimacy. (I shouldn’t have been. We’re talking about a contrivance that has a special app for making a call. Who knows what it’s capable of.)
Day two, one hundred and thirty attempts later: I discovered that the problem lay not with my phone, but with the Bluetooth. It had refused to go into pairing mode. This too came as a shock. Was it rejecting my phone, or me? My hand went to my ear. Had it lost its allure? If so, had other orifices followed suit? And if this was the case, would God be cruel enough to let me find out this way?
Amazing, the questions technology can raise.