My Husband Is Always On His Phone
Oh, my darling husband. He’s a wonderful man, truly. He can fix anything, tell the best jokes, and he makes a killer cup of coffee. But there’s one small, tiny, insignificant… okay, maybe not so insignificant… habit that’s become a recurring theme in our lives. It’s the phone. Yes, that glowing rectangle that seems to have a permanent gravitational pull on his hand.
It’s like our house has a secret, invisible phone fairy. No sooner does he finish his morning coffee (the excellent coffee, I must reiterate) than the fairy taps him on the shoulder, whispering, “Psst, urgent update on cat memes!” And just like that, he’s gone. Not physically, of course. He’s still on the couch, probably next to me, but his brain? That’s a whole other story. It’s been beamed directly into the digital ether.
I’ve tried everything. I’ve subtly placed my own phone on the coffee table, hoping he’d get the hint. I’ve even, in a moment of mild desperation, strategically placed a very interesting magazine right on top of his phone. Did it work? For approximately 3.7 seconds. Then, like a homing pigeon to a pigeon coop, his hand would instinctively reach out, delicately lift the magazine, and poof! Back into the digital vortex.
It’s not that he’s ignoring me. I don’t think he is. It’s more like he’s multitasking on a cosmic level. He’s simultaneously listening to me tell him about my day, watching a squirrel do a daring tightrope walk across our power line (via a live feed, naturally), and probably liking a photo of a particularly fluffy cloud. It’s a lot for one brain to handle, but my husband, bless his cotton socks, seems to be giving it his best shot.
“Sometimes I wonder if his phone has its own personality. Does it have a little voice inside it, urging him to scroll? Is it whispering sweet nothings of endless content?”
The other day, we were at a beautiful picnic in the park. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the air was filled with the scent of freshly cut grass. I was mid-sentence, explaining my latest brilliant idea for reorganizing the linen closet (a truly thrilling prospect, I assure you), when I noticed his eyes glazing over. Not in boredom, no. In a sort of… digital trance. He blinked slowly, his thumb doing a gentle, rhythmic dance across the screen. I swear I heard a faint ping echo in the quiet afternoon.
I’ve started giving him “phone breaks.” I’ll announce, “Okay, darling, phone-free time for the next 30 minutes! We’re going to talk about… um… the existential dread of Tuesdays!” He’ll usually agree, with a slightly bewildered look, as if I’ve just asked him to juggle flaming torches while reciting Shakespeare. And for a while, it’s glorious! We connect! We gaze into each other’s eyes! We might even… dare I say it… hold hands without a screen in between!
Then, as if on cue, a notification will chime. A subtle, almost apologetic little beep. And it’s like a siren song for my dear husband. His eyes will dart towards the sound, his hand will twitch, and before I can say “but we were talking about the dust bunnies under the sofa!”, he’s back in the digital world. It’s like watching a magician make a rabbit disappear, except the rabbit is our actual conversation, and the magician is his smartphone.
I’ve tried to embrace it, really I have. I’ve even started narrating his phone activity. “Oh, is that a recipe for chocolate lava cake you’re looking at? Can we make that later?” Or, “Ah, a thrilling update on the world’s largest collection of novelty socks, I see!” Sometimes, he’ll look up, a flicker of awareness in his eyes, and give me a sheepish grin. Those are the moments I cherish. Those are the victories.
It’s a constant, gentle dance. A playful tug-of-war between the real world and the digital one. And while sometimes I might feel like I’m competing with a thousand cat videos and an infinite scroll of news articles, I wouldn’t trade him, or his slightly-too-attached phone, for anything. Because even when he’s lost in the glowing depths, a part of him is always there, right beside me, ready to look up, smile, and remind me why I love him. Even if he did just find out about the world’s second-largest collection of novelty socks via an app.