It was an ingenious plan. To be honest, I never saw it coming, But now, looking back in hindsight (as if there were any other way to look back) it is perfectly clear. Steve Jobs, the CEO of Apple, and Amy, my physical therapist, teamed together (as if there were any other way to team) to kill me.
Steve's piece of the puzzle was simple, create a phone that everyone wants but that also has the battery life of a wind up emergency radio. Amy's piece was much more subtle. She had to convince me to add Fleetwood Mac's "The Dance" to my Netflix queue. While both of these actions taken separately, were fairly innocuous, (and Steve's is obviously bad business) taken together, they almost led to my untimely demise.
As many of you know, I'm currently not in Oklahoma anymore. I'm sitting in a hotel room outside of Philadelphia. I flew into Philadelphia on Monday. All of my travel information was stored neatly on my iPhone. This included my hotel's address and phone number.
When I got in my rental car, a Nissan Versa, (I have come to the conclusion that Versa is named for Versatile only without the acceleration) I entered the address into my GPS. Within a few seconds, Cleo (the name I have given to the GPS lady that gives me directions) discovered the quickest route to get me from the Payless Rental Car parking lot to King of Prussia Pennsylvania. (Two quick notes. 1. You do not get a free pair of shoes when you rent from Payless although you should. 2. King of Prussia is a silly name for a city.)
At this point you are probably asking (I realize that you're probably not) "What do Amy and Fleetwood Mac have to do with this?" As I said, Amy had conveniently convinced me to add "The Dance" to my Netflix queue several months ago. Somehow, I suspect that sorcery might have been involved, Amy knew that I would be traveling to Philadelphia this month. She also knew that I would have an iPhone with the "10 minute: Extended Life Battery." Knowing that I would view "The Dance" the night before my trip, she must have concluded that I would need a Fleetwood Mac fix that could only be cured by downloading "Rumors." She also knew that I would listen to "Rumors" during my 2 hour layover in Chicago, thereby shortening my battery life from "Power nap" to "Hiccup". Some of you might insist that I bare some responsibility for this fiasco. You would fall into the exceedingly large group of people that I refer to as "Not my friends."
So, as I'm navigating Philadelphia traffic, I am constantly looking at my phone to see if Cleo has died. The only way that this situation could become more dangerous is if I decide to start texting or checking email. I probably would have, but right on schedule Cleo died. Fortunately that's not a problem because I have the address to the hotel in an email, I'll just call them and ask for directions. Oh wait.
