There was a time when leaving the house meant you were out.
You could walk to the store, drive across town or spend an afternoon with a friend, and nobody—not your employer, your family or a delivery driver carrying six dollars’ worth of tacos and expecting a nine-dollar tip—could contact you until you returned.
No one found this alarming; it was simply called being out.
Baby boomers may be the last generation to remember the pleasure of being truly unreachable. When a soldier’s wife packed the CorningWare and left, she was expected to write a polite “Dear John” letter.
It then traveled to Vietnam, giving you time to patrol the jungle, survive enemy fire and reflect on buying that second bowling ball.
Modern technology has destroyed the romance of abandonment.
Imagine crouching behind a date palm in the Middle East under heavy fire when your pocket begins playing a cheerful marimba ringtone. You answer, expecting news of reinforcements.
Instead, it is your wife, shouting over the mortar blasts that she is taking the little tax exemption and moving to a better school district. You explain that this is not an ideal time to divide the furniture, but she has added her mother to the call. Then the connection freezes on an unflattering image of your face because even global communications cannot produce five reception bars in a war zone.
In 1970, no helicopter crewman had to choose between relaying enemy coordinates and answering a text. A soldier during the Vietnam War had to make many difficult decisions, but “Should I put my girlfriend on Do Not Disturb?” was not one of them.
Before the internet, much of life happened without an audience. A meal could be beautiful without being photographed. A bad joke could disappear. A foolish opinion might survive only in the memories of those unfortunate enough to hear it.
Mistakes of adolescence, mercifully, were not instantly presented for viewing on social media networks, nor were they permanently archived.
A teenager could make a terrible decision Friday night and, with luck, be unaffected by Monday. Today, the same decision is recorded from four angles, set to music and viewed 600,000 times before breakfast. By Monday, the teenager may require the services of an attorney or a publicist explaining that the incident “does not reflect his values.”
Today, people are magnificently efficient at making poor snap decisions. When we’re out, there is usually a security, public, or cell phone camera rolling. It is not hard to find poor decisions made by average folks during a weak moment on YouTube or the evening news.
Before internet, we waited—for letters, television programs, long-distance calls, the bank to open and for Dad to finish yelling at the television before asking to borrow the car.
Today, information is instantly available on many mediums of both good and bad intent.
Before internet, if we did not know something, we could consult an encyclopedia, telephone the library, call a smart friend or forget about it.
Not knowing was peaceful, affordable, and required no password.
Now we carry virtual libraries in our pockets. The internet lets us speak across borders, learn almost anything, find common communities, and summon help from nearly anywhere.
But each time technology gives us something, it teaches us to live without something else.
We gained instant access and lost our tolerance for not knowing. A friend can no longer wonder who played a minor character in a 1970s police drama. Before anyone can enjoy the uncertainty, six phones are out and somebody is reading the actor’s life story.
We gained permanent connection and made solitude suspicious. Ignore a text for 20 minutes and the sender progresses from “Did you see this?” to “Are you angry?” to “Are you alive?” An hour later, relatives are discussing whether to notify authorities.
Once, three television networks united the nation around the conviction that their broadcasts provided sufficient news and entertainment.
Today, we scroll through 8,000 options for 45 minutes, choose nothing and go to bed feeling like we missed something.
Cell phones were supposed to liberate us from landlines. Instead, we carry the office, family, news, bank, store, camera, television and everyone we have met since elementary school in one device demanding twice-daily charging.
We no longer own phones. We serve as their human support staff.
A married couple can spend an evening on the same sofa, each communicating intensely with everyone except the person they chose to live with. Restaurants no longer need mood lighting. The pale blue glow of 40 foreheads provides all the illumination required.
The pre-internet world was not superior. It was slower, less convenient and often more isolating. Information was harder to find, relationships harder to manage, and people had fewer ways to discover they were not alone.
But those of us who remember, know something worth preserving: Constant availability is not a law. Not every message is urgent. Not every thought requires publication. Not every meal needs photographic evidence. Not every silence is a crisis. And overuse of cell phones causes a noticeable slouch.
Wait. Not sure about phone slouch – I’ll ask AI.
AI could not confirm or deny phone-slouch, but slouching aside, pre-internet generations thrived without emojis and the privacy of instant messaging.
We made sure the phone cord was long enough to get out of earshot.