Today marks one week since, after a meeting, en route to my car, I dropped (by accident, it slipped from my holster) and kicked (by coincidence, I was in full stride) my Treo.
At first, I was sad for being so clumsy and hopeful that the Treo wasn't truly damaged. It looked good and I'd dropped it a couple times before without injury.
By the time I reached my car, I knew that the unit was truly broken. All its functions were fine (phone, email, etc.), but the keyboard wasn't working completely. I couldn't type 13 of my favorite 26 letters in the English alphabet. "Ths sx," I thought, "nw, i hv 2 typ lk a IMr."
No way. I'm not typing like an IMer. Somewhere there is a diploma on the wall that claims I studied English. I need all my vowels as much as I need all my bowels.
So, off went Treo -- away for repair or replacement. What will happen to the Treo is not my first thought today: My first thought is what has happened to me.