It’s 1am in the morning and I’ve had a little cramp in my toe for about half an hour. I keep trying to go back to sleep, but it’s one of those anxious nights when every thought becomes an entire novel. I reach out in the dark toward the nightstand for my phone. It lights up like a beacon in my hands. I make an appointment with Dr. Webb…. MD, and what do you know, the doctor can see me immediately. Without even examining me, he diagnoses my tiny toe cramp as a symptom of the Bubonic Plague.
For the rest of the night, my thoughts migrate from my impending health crisis to how this thing, my sleek and trusty phone, has become my doctor, and not just my doctor, but my librarian, bookie, banker, portfolio manager, purchaser, teacher, researcher, nutritionist, fitness instructor, appointment keeper, navigator, news anchor, photographer, videographer, publisher, postal worker, meteorologist, translator, travel agent, yogi, deejay, that friend who’s always trying to get me to play more video games AND that friend who’s always trying to get me to be more social. If I were single, it would be my matchmaker, too.
It’s no wonder my phone thinks I’m dying.
It has taken over all the roles in my life that used to belong to humans.
Except one.
Is there someone you love?
Do you hold them, look at them, pay attention to them, take care of them, pick them up and carry them, spend all day touching them, spend all night with them, miss them, need them, want them, come running when they call you like you do your phone?
That’s a lot of dopamine!
I know I don’t, at least not all the time. Maybe it’s because there’s no real commitment and thus no real chance of heartbreak. If my phone doesn’t hold up its end of the bargain, I simply trade it in for a new one. Maybe it’s because there is no gratification delay. I push a button or touch a screen and immediately receive that quick hit of dopamine. Maybe it’s because my phone is the most powerful echo chamber, curated to make me feel so damn good about myself. Or maybe it’s because my phone knows me best.
The Amazon app knows my favorite books (Harry Potter). The Pandora app knows my favorite music (90s R&B and Hip Hop). The Chipotle app knows what I want on my burrito (salsa, never; extra sour cream, always). The Maps app knows where I’ve been (Chipotle). The Bank of America app knows all the secret things I spend my money on (Funko Pops). And the Firefox app knows all those weird, dark thoughts that end up in the search engine (can I still love the art of a bad person? is the world a simulation? is reincarnation real? is Chipotle still having an E. coli problem?)
Our phones know the who, what, where, and when of us, but there are some things they will never know. No algorithm or data or technology can know the way my daughter’s laugh pulls the light-strings deep inside me, or how I respond when someone I love needs a hug, or the emotional cycling involved with rediscovering and recreating my self at the same time. My phone will never understand the topography of marriage or what it means to navigate the world in my body. Our phones will never know the Why of us. They would need hearts to do that.
Maybe we just need to stop treating Siri like she has one.