The Death Of My iPhone And Coping With Loss
All phones die but this one may have truly lived.
My iPhone died this past weekend. His name was Gary, and he approached his end with a stoicism and grace few are able to muster in their last days. Yes, I’ve named my iPhone and, before that raises any hackles, I’d like to note that I’m not one of those people who names his genitals or his car.
A man’s relationship with his genitals and his car is different from the one he has with his iPhone. I think that we forget that sometimes. Gary and I had a wonderful relationship that blossomed into a meaningful exchange of ideas, mutual trust, and regular maintenance over the course of just a few short years.
I began to suspect that there was a problem when Gary wouldn’t take a charge in the car but I wasn’t alarmed. This sort of thing had happened before and I’d typically chalked it up to the charger being finicky instead of any failing on Gary’s part. By the time we came home though I knew the situation was serious when he wouldn’t pair with any charger in the entire house.
With his consent, I blew in his port and then gently swabbed it with a Q-tip dipped in rubbing alcohol but to no effect. Gary still wouldn’t take a charge. Knowing that the end game was in play, I powered down any unnecessary functions to make…
