I spent all yesterday without the internet. This is like making Scarlett O’Hara live without Tara or my pug live without food or a gambler live without Las Vegas.
Not only that, we were without television and the land-line, too. Now, nobody ever answers the land-line, I have a cell phone, and I rarely watch TV, but still. Having three of the major connection points to the world out, even if I didn’t want to use them, made me edgy and cranky. Okay, let’s be honest, it was not having the internet that mostly made me edgy and cranky.
So I have to ask myself if I am addicted to the internet.
Just because I know that Paris Hilton is dating the brother of that guy who is the father of Nicole Richie’s baby doesn’t make me an addict, does it? Or that I am grieving the fact that Patrick Swayze has pancreatic cancer? Or the fact that I’ve now read at least 10 articles about Margaret B. Jones, the woman I wrote about on Tuesday?
You mean not everyone has all these vital facts at the tip of their tongues? So I
guess it is probably true that I have a wee, mild addiction to email and the internet.
Well, even if you insist I am addicted, I’m not going to any 12-step program for it. No, not me. And this is not going to be a blog post about how I saw the light, having a day without the internet. Nope. I hated every damn second of it, even thought I did get a ton of writing done this afternoon, between clicks on the Mozilla "Problem Loading Page" button every 30 seconds. When the repairman finally came and asked me how recently I’d checked the online connection I looked at him like he was nuts. Clearly, he does not have an internet addiction.
But I do, and I’m proud. Well, maybe not proud, but at least not afraid to admit it. I was so happy to be back online that I was all ready to celebrate by watching American Idol, which I seem to be missing a lot these days.
Except when we turned on the TV, it had gone back to not working. Well, at least I can check the results today, on the internet.