I can still remember the glorious day my dad took me to the Verizon store in the fifth grade to buy my first cellphone. The Samsung Glyde instantly won me over with its touchscreen and slide-out keyboard.
On the bus ride home, I discovered a new form of entertainment: texting everyone in my contacts, “heyyyy! how r u?”
In 2013, when I turned 13, I got my first iPhone. I became a full-time selfie machine. My favorite party trick? Asking Siri things like, “Where can I bury a body?” while surrounded by horrified middle school classmates. “I found three cemeteries near you,” Siri replied.
Next came my “free” upgrade: an iPhone with Apple’s then-revolutionary fingerprint home button. That phone later vanished somewhere near my college campus — may it rest in peace. Luckily, my dad happened to be visiting and took me to the nearest Verizon store for a replacement.
Through every cracked screen, fried phone and panicked Verizon store trip, one thing never changed: My dad handled the headaches and the bill.
