Like most of you, I’ve had a phone of some sort for many years. I see people walk around with cracked screens and sharing stories of phone calamities and something about a rice bath, but it’s never been me. Calamities that haven’t befallen my precious. I don’t let kids nor other adults, anyone really, touch my phone. I am kind of a pain about it. I’ve heard too much, I’ve seen too much. I cringe when I see someone on TV sporting a cracked phone. “If you are on television, someone is paying you something, why the hell are you showing off a cracked phone screen”? I can’t imagine being comfortable enough to show thousands of people my carelessness. Til now.
Tempered glass has saved my phone countless times from slippery fingers, as has my Mophie, the only brand of phone case I’ve ever used.
And now I’m without it. While taking a picture of my Indian Masala, I dropped my phone into a pot of hot delicious. In an instant, I became one of those people and also became aware of my tolerance for heat. I always admired the professional chef’s ability to touch and grab sizzling things with their hands because they didn’t want to take time to grab a kitchen towel. I’m not sure if finding out my fingers won’t burn after being dipped into a pan of cooking southeast Asian food makes me Kitchen Official but it feels like it.
My new phone survived. I had to pick tomato something out of the do-not-disturb switch but everything else wiped off, in record speed. My Mophie, however, did not make it. Every opening caked in fabulous stuff. But it died in the line of duty, doing what I bought it to do.
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