The other day I was in the supermarket, trolling aisle six for cranberry sauce, when I overheard a woman on the other end of the aisle on her cellphone informing her friend that her mammogram came back negative. As we passed, I wasn't sure if I should have congratulated her. I opted for not staring at her healthy breasts.
What happened to privacy? Cellphones happened.
I'm old enough to remember when people who needed to make phone calls in public went into a booth, closed the door and spoke as low as possible. After all, they didn't want others to hear their private conversation and common decency dictated they not invade the personal space of others.
Personal space. What a quaint notion.
We can't even get away from it at a quiet restaurant. It's gotten so that I prefer dining at noisy, busy establishments because the constant hum blocks out the chatter from the suit at a nearby table assuring his customer he would take care of the matter immediately. My wife even brings her cellphone with her to public restrooms, in case her sister calls. I can't imagine what it must be like for a person in a nearby stall, trapped, listening to two sisters kvetch about their day. There has to be something in the Geneva Convention prohibiting such conduct.
My daughter-in-law tells me my generation has problems multi-tasking, that she can talk on her phone, email a friend, watch television and prepare dinner at the same time. I choose not to mention her spelling errors or bland jambalaya because she forgot the red pepper.
And then there's her penchant for driving while dictating inatructions to her employees on her cell. I'm sure she's read the studies showing that a thirty-year-old driving while on a cellphone has the equivalent reflexes of a seventy-year-old or a person whose blood alcohol exceeds 0.08. Of course, she probably read the article while doing sixteen other things. Recently, she became enraged at a school bus driver on her cellphone involved in an accident that endangered the safety of thirty-six elementary school children. But she still talks on her cell while driving her own kids. The irony seems lost on her.
Perhaps it's a generational thing.
Yes, I admit it I've become a crotchety old man. But at least I don't share the results of my colonoscopy with strangers in the supermarket.
What happened to privacy? Cellphones happened.
I'm old enough to remember when people who needed to make phone calls in public went into a booth, closed the door and spoke as low as possible. After all, they didn't want others to hear their private conversation and common decency dictated they not invade the personal space of others.
Personal space. What a quaint notion.
We can't even get away from it at a quiet restaurant. It's gotten so that I prefer dining at noisy, busy establishments because the constant hum blocks out the chatter from the suit at a nearby table assuring his customer he would take care of the matter immediately. My wife even brings her cellphone with her to public restrooms, in case her sister calls. I can't imagine what it must be like for a person in a nearby stall, trapped, listening to two sisters kvetch about their day. There has to be something in the Geneva Convention prohibiting such conduct.
My daughter-in-law tells me my generation has problems multi-tasking, that she can talk on her phone, email a friend, watch television and prepare dinner at the same time. I choose not to mention her spelling errors or bland jambalaya because she forgot the red pepper.
And then there's her penchant for driving while dictating inatructions to her employees on her cell. I'm sure she's read the studies showing that a thirty-year-old driving while on a cellphone has the equivalent reflexes of a seventy-year-old or a person whose blood alcohol exceeds 0.08. Of course, she probably read the article while doing sixteen other things. Recently, she became enraged at a school bus driver on her cellphone involved in an accident that endangered the safety of thirty-six elementary school children. But she still talks on her cell while driving her own kids. The irony seems lost on her.
Perhaps it's a generational thing.
Yes, I admit it I've become a crotchety old man. But at least I don't share the results of my colonoscopy with strangers in the supermarket.
