The Extreme Sport of Upgrading A Cell Phone After The Age of 50.

So, here’s the thing: getting old is officially the worst. Yes, I’ve screamed this into the void countless times, but life keeps serving up fresh reasons to complain more.

Anyone teetering on the "ugh- bleak" side of life will understand: change isn’t just uncomfortable—it’s downright terrifying. Forget bungee jumping or skydiving—trying to switch cell phones? Now that is the real extreme sport.

As an obsessive hiker and compulsive photo snapper, my 3 year old phone’s meh-level camera has officially become my nemesis. I mean, what’s more important than the hike itself? The photos, of course.

There are moments on a hike when I’m standing next to someone as they casually snap National Geographic-level shots of the exact same zebra that I am squinting to locate through my pathetic zoom...on their cell phone! Their photos? Stunning close-ups, so crisp it looks like they could’ve braided the zebra’s mane. Mine? A breathtaking tribute to “distant mountain,” featuring zero discernible wildlife. Where’s the zebra? Is that... a rock? A smudge? Who knows?

Since hiking and photos became a package deal for me, I convinced myself that I wanted my photos to reflect what I actually saw, But honestly, if that zebra ever got close enough for me to snap the kind of jaw-dropping shots my fellow hikers casually flaunt, I’d probably be more concerned about being flattened by the wildlife than filming it.

After a while of living in phone purgatory—surviving cliff dives (thanks Lindi), ground slams, overheating, freezing, lagging, and the ultimate betrayal: a declining camera—I finally caved. Time for an upgrade.

I marched into the store like a woman on a mission. “What phone do you want?” the saleswoman asked. “The one with the best camera I replied… within my price range, of course,” (I mean, let’s not be reckless here—I still have bills to pay), cutting her off mid-sentence. No specs, no small talk—just hand me the camera and let’s wrap this up.

A few signatures later, I walked out victorious, shiny new phone in hand. And then what did I do? Rushed home, plopped it on the dining room table… and promptly ignored it. Because, let’s be honest, what else is a hundred-year-old woman supposed to do with a fancy new phone?

Over the next few days, Salt and Pepper wouldn’t stop hounding me. “Why haven’t you switched yet?” they asked on repeat. “I will,” I grumbled, fully committed to procrastination. “I just need to... emotionally prepare.” Translation: I was clinging to my old, battered phone like it held the secrets to my soul—terrified that this new, shiny thing would demand I actually learn how to use it.

When the weekend rolled around, I held onto my battered, dysfunctional device for dear life during one last weekend of hikes. Familiar Waze. Familiar camera. Familiar... chaos. Except this time, my old phone decided it had reached its limit with me. It overheated, froze, and behaved like it was aging in dog years.

Sunday night, I stared at the pristine, untouched new phone (still in its box wrapped in the cellophane). This is it, I thought, “Time to finally make the switch.”

Then I remembered: it was Sunday night—literally the worst time to start anything meaningful. “Tomorrow,” I mumbled to myself. Monday arrived, work happened, exhaustion set in, and the phone stayed neatly in its box (cellophane still intact).

And there I was, 5 days later. old phone in one hand, throwing side-eye at new phone...still in box....cellophane still intact.

What is actually wrong with me?? Somebody send help, ... or at least a tech-savvy interventionist to pry this old phone from my cold, stubborn hands.