Death By iPhone

I have an iPhone. If I wanted to, I could be blogging this very post (or is it posting to this very blog?) with my iPhone, which means that the phrase "Sent from my iPhone" could be attached to bottom of my post, as it is with every e-mail I send from it. And those four words pack a lot of punch. More than once I've received this terse reply to an e-mail "sent from my iPhone": "I hate you."

I realize we iPhone users aren't a terribly sympathetic crowd. Neither was the guy who got the first wheel on his cave-block. There's always a trial period -- a few months, years, decades, millennia -- during which society irons out the kinks of any revolutionary tool. The goal is to minimize the invention's downsides while maximizing its upsides. And it's the technology's early users -- us brave guinea pigs -- who end up suffering for the greater good.

I know everyone says that Apple's latest invention is wonderful, revolutionary and life-changing. And for the most part, everyone's right. My iPhone entertains me when I'm bored. It organizes me when I'm scatterbrained. It loves me when I'm sad and lonely. It might as well cook me eggs and bacon the morning after.

But I know that all these wonderful upsides come at a steep price. For example: I am fairly certain that my iPhone will be the end of me. Achilles, the name I've given my device, will ultimately bring me down.

Let me explain:

When I first got my iPhone, I felt like the kid who walks in on the first day of second grade with the baddest trapper keeper. I knew I had the goods, and I expected the oohs and aahs to start as soon as I walked down the street with the device held to my ear.

But the oohs and aahs never came. In fact, there were only sneers. It's not that people don't think the iPhone is awesome. They know it is, but they also know that they don't have one. The desire can drive even the most even-tempered man insane. iPhone envy stokes our most atavistic urges: You have. I want.

So it's only a matter of time before someone snaps. A co-worker maybe, or a neighbor. They'll see me checking my e-mail as I cross the street, or hear my smooth jams as I'm running on the treadmill. They'll approach me from behind. They'll crouch. And in a few seconds, it will all be over.

But don't worry about me. I probably won't even realize what is happening. I'll be too busy checking my e-mail.