Can you hear me now?

Today I finally did something I've said for years I'd never do — I bought a wireless phone. (I understand it's not strictly accurate to call them cellular phones anymore. Who knew?)

KJ has had one for years, and even KM has one now, but I've always ridiculed the idea that I'd ever carry one myself. (Anyone who knows my legendary antipathy for talking on the phone can surmise the psychological reasons.) But I do drive long distances to chorus rehearsals and performances and competitions, so I guess it won't kill me to have one along for emergencies. And, in these uncertain times, one never knows when one might be stranded on the wrong end of a bridge somewhere.

The main factor in my breakdown, however, was a system that appeals to my inner control freak. I've heard so many horror stories about wireless contracts — my father-in-law spent several hours on the phone with his carrier just this week trying to sort out an overcharge on his latest statement — that health club memberships seem user-friendly by comparison. Then earlier this week, I learned about a company called TracFone that will sell you a phone, and you just buy minutes every couple of months according to your usage needs. (All right, it's slightly more involved than that, but don't interrupt me when I'm pushing my comfort envelope.)

So this afternoon, in the wake of a hefty check from my favorite client, I bopped over to Target, plunked down fifty bucks plus tax, and became the latest idiot with the ability to careen heedlessly through traffic with a little plastic box plastered to my ear, like James T. Kirk piloting a shuttlecraft high on Antarean brandy.

Not that I will, mind you. But now I can.

Welcome to the Wireless Age, Mr. Swan.