Out in trash, back in order. Seated in my room, visualizing how my belated birthday party next week will go, I started to quake and shiver. My throat started hurting, I couldn’t swallow, my eyes became teary, and I started sweating profusely. I pushed the buttons frantically, but in vain. I shook it. I looked at it. I prayed to God to bear with me and forgive me for any sin that I might have committed to deserve this punishment. I cried. My greatest fear came to pass; stuck, a beep, blank screen then silence. I had lost everything.
Out in trash, back in order.
Seated in my room, visualizing how my belated birthday party next week will go, I started to quake and shiver. My throat started hurting, I couldn’t swallow, my eyes became teary, and I started sweating profusely. I pushed the buttons frantically, but in vain.
I shook it. I looked at it. I prayed to God to bear with me and forgive me for any sin that I might have committed to deserve this punishment. I cried. My greatest fear came to pass; stuck, a beep, blank screen then silence. I had lost everything.
My little blackberry (my diary, secretary and organiser) that was 10GB, the one I received on my last birthday that promised to bring order to my life, the one I had filled with every piece of information that had once cluttered my brain, decided to rest in peace sooner than later.
"Now what?” I thought as I sat holding the battery trying to figure out what had just happened to the phone that was once the love of my life. My frustration gave way to a sort of futility; my futility led to a deep sense of disloyalty. I started feeling like an attachment had been broken. Time and again, I had always had an agreement with my little blackberry, like an arrangement, a pact. According to it’s terms and conditions stipulated in the manual, it promised that if I abide by it’s rules, it would open up to me and do anything for me with no queries asked.
It had convinced me it was my dream organiser better than the crap of papers I was sticking on my door, refrigerator and the walls. What a mess! So I took it at its word, and we became one. It knew I had faults, like scheduling meetings too close together, forgetting birthdays, and updating telephone numbers. But it stuck by me, even when I once dropped it down two stairs and Max (my live-in-dog) once put it in its pup, it never left my side.
Our love grew, in no time; I had fallen completely for it, carrying it in my shirt pocket wherever I went. Right there, next to my heart. Now seated here, I wonder, did I rush things? Probably it wasn’t ready to be committed to one person. Probably it had fallen out of love, and didn’t have the courage to face me and tell me. It might not have died. Maybe I felt it no option but to die. Maybe I overloaded it with too many of my insignificant dilemmas. Or it decided to go because it felt unappreciated; crashed because it felt used.
I’ll never know. I was devastated; I couldn’t cry, scream, shout or slap myself, none of that really mattered to me. My telephone numbers were gone. My schedule was gone. But worst of all, this deadbeat of a phone took my dozen or so "to do” lists with it. Without those lists, I was lost. There was my personal list, you know with stuff like: Make an appointment to get my hair cut, remember to call Sandra for our dinner appointment, attend the "Blackout or Getout party” at Casablance.
I also had a study list, with a list of things I had to do at campus, things I needed to do, things I should do but probably wouldn’t, and things I was going to try to trick a fellow student into doing for me (one of those who you secretly know have a crush on you).
Then I had my VIP contacts list, complete with the names of the people I needed to call to compliment, praise and congratulate for things I really couldn’t care less about but had to act like I did just in case I might need them for something one day. I can’t forget my improvement list, on all levels.
I also lost my cease-fire list that helped not to get into a bad day with anyone. Things that don’t matter to me but some people are so obsessed with, that you are tempted to think their life depends on them. As a good friend, I decided to contribute to their happiness by celebrating with them their anniversaries, birthdays, Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Boss’ Day, Secretary’s Day, Cleaner’s Day and this new one, Sweetest Day. This list kept me out of hot water. I also had a personal-finance list. This one told me how much I had to spend on bills, flowers, chocolate, beer....etc
Now, my fiancee had tried to convince me that organizing my life began with organizing my mind. By getting rid of the things that were scattered in my little nut, and sticking papers on the refrigerator, or using my phone really didn’t matter. It would be much more productive if my brain was organized.
You see, somehow women are good at organizing their lives, much better than men. They can handle multiple tasks at ago that would overwhelm the average guy, and they can remember things that we have long forgotten, like what happened on your date five years ago. So, I solicited for her help through some mental-therapy, image-recapturing process and memory-building exercises. But nothing worked. Before long, she had concluded that I was too far gone.
Maybe I am. But at least I know am not alone. I can sit comfortably because I know many people who are as unorganized and dependent on to-do lists as I am. In fact, most of my friends make one themselves. And it’s obvious that they are no better at it than I am. Heck, some of them even have to check their list twice and this applies to both sexes.
So friends, if you’re reading this, keep your cutlery, bottles of champagne, cologne, and wallet and for girls..........the kisses. Instead, put one thing on your list for my belated birthday party. A prayer for a life with real order, the kind that I will not put on a to-do list or scrap of papers, order that will be more than what my-ex-love-of-my-life used to do. Because I learned the hard way, a life driven by endless disorder is only a beep and a blank screen away from heartache.