Unplugged: Can a student survive?

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If any of my UNL bffs plan to crash during History 348 today, I'm sorry.

Chink, chink, chink. Chink, chink, chink. Ding!

The dreaded ding.

If their eyes weren't drilling me before, they are now. Thirty UNL students uncomfortably shift in their blue plastic chairs, sneaking glances, narrowing eyes, smirking, rustling paper, exhaling loudly, clearing throats — or were they simply admiring my blue Century Royal? Probs not.

"Yes?" says my professor, nodding to a raised hand.

"I'm having a hard time concentrating over that typewriter!" a student exclaims.

So there it is.

"I'm kinda on a technology fast," I sheepishly reply.

A kid on the other side of the room offers a bribe — his notebook, my silence.

"It's the ding that got me," blurts another student.

The professor resumes his tutorial on Woodrow Wilson's World War I policies while I scribble notes for the rest of the longest class of my life.

"What exactly are you doing?" demands a classmate as we head out of class.

"I'm just not really using any technology right now," I say.

"Good luck with that," he scoffs.

* * *

Oh, I can see the texts now: "youll nevr guess wht this crzy chick did in class."

Chill, Asha, laugh it off.

"dude this girl brought a typewriter to class."

Yeah, that's me, the crazy chick with the manual '60s typewriter.

* * *

Here's the deal: As an experiment, I decided to go cold cyber turkey for a week.

I was sick of hearing the constant grousing about video games corrupting children, Facebook demolishing social skills, TV turning young brains to mush and texting breeding a generation of technoholics with the attention spans of a hamster on crack and the ruminative skills of a tree stump.

I wasn't addicted to this stuff — and I could prove it. Right?

So on a recent Sunday, I powered down my cell phone, computer and iPod and took an oath to only use payphones, car radios and a landline at work for one week: seven days, 168 hours, 10,080 minutes, 604,800 seconds.

I set my old-school alarm clock for 8 a.m., flicked off the lights, pulled the covers to my chin and closed my eyes, praying a prehistoric alarm would wake me, hoping I hadn't forgotten to return an email or pay an online bill.

Day One

"How was your day?" my roommate asked.

"Good. I got sent to Omaha to report on a story."

"Did you at least take your cell phone, you know, just in case you got stranded or something?"

"No."

"Wow," she said. "You're brave."

Brave? Driving without a cell phone to Omaha is brave? Joan of Arc was brave. Rosa Parks was brave. Mulan — yes, from the Disney movie — was brave. Driving without a cell phone is not an act of heroism. Is it?

Day Two

I desperately need to make three phone calls. Just three.

I trek across campus to the Student Union and find the pay phones predictably vacant.

Quarter, quarter. Dialing. Ringing. Waiting.

"I'm sorry," says the automated voice. "Your call could not be completed as dialed, please hang up and try again."

I try a different set of phones. Same result.

I solicit the help of four others, but make no progress — other than knowing the operators and long-distance carriers by name.

Suddenly I feel the weight of my backpack, of my typewriter, and then a far heavier load: I can't set up appointments! I can't tell my mom why I'm MIA! I can't hear my best friend's voice! I'm tempted, really tempted, to walk away and get a cell phone fix.

But I don't and an hour later, I realize an Omaha phone call is long distance, so I get out my Visa and start dialing.

One ring, two, three...

"Hello?"

"Mom?"

"Hi, dolly. How are you?"

How much is this costing me? How long have I been here? What do I have to do tonight? Read for history, study, type up tomorrow's assignment, work out. no, I can't fit that in tonight...

"Mom, I have to go..."

I'm wasting my time, wasting my money. Just tell her about your day, Asha, why you're almost in tears. Pull yourself together, you're in a public place. Tell her it's harder than you thought, tell her it's even harder to explain.

"Thanks, I love you, too. Bye."

An hour of bonding with a germy, wall-connected relic instead of my mom, for this? Worthless.

I can bake mini lemon soufflés, but I can't work a pay phone? Ridic.

Day Three

"Ready?"

"Yep, go ahead."

"OK ."

I stall a little longer, then start dictating slowly, very slowly.

"New quote, I am a boy 12, the number, years old. Ellipses. End quote. Wrote ."

"Wait, what's an ellipses?"

"It's three periods in a row, you know?" I roll my eyes.

"Oh, right, right."

For a journalist, dictating a story via landline, in 2011, is a soul-sucking experience.

More than once, I consider faxing it — fax machines were around in 1975, right? But I'd have to go to the library to find out. Or I could make a quick trip to Omaha with the typed pages in hand.

". . . real meaning of friendship, comma, this would be it. Period. End quote. And that's it."

Thanking him, I peel the phone from my ear and slam it down.

"Welcome to 1975!" chuckles a co-worker.

Day Four

It's the typical response of anyone hearing about my experiment: "You're doing what!?"

"I will pray for you," said a friend. She was dead serious.

"I couldn't do it," said a professor. She was honest.

"I have trouble unplugging for this class," said a fellow student. He was in awe.

At times, I almost felt saintly — free of temptation, full of purpose.

They offered their cell phones and I refused. They tempted me with Facebook and I demurred. They surrounded me with laptops and I retreated to my clanking, retro dinosaur. Nbd.

Day Five

Inside my apartment, I feel a headache taking up free lodging between my temples.

There's no laughter. No blaring bass. No sign of a studious roomie melodiously pecking away at her Mac.

I need some noise!

Even if I'm not listening, even if it's C-Span, even if it's the hum of the microwave or the strumming of fingers on a table. I need noise. And I need it now!

Someone advised me to revel in this time, to think deeper thoughts. And let me tell you, I am. I'm thinking deeply of how to sneak a peek at my cell phone, access my stash of mounting emails, stream one song from the Internet — just one — to tide me over.

So I turn up the local news channel, throw on sweats, initiate a staring contest with the contents of the refrigerator, hoping to hear the apartment door open.

Day Six

The car quiets from the gibber-gabber of girly talk as three good friends push toward the Minnesota border for a long weekend. Closer to the loon-lulled lakes, closer to turning on my cell phone, now mocking me from my backpack.

Life is good. Just a couple more days. Who knows, I might not even want to turn it on.

A phone suddenly vibrates, illuminating the shadowy car like a spotlight in an empty theater.

Brittany furiously works the mini keyboard, pressing buttons, forming words, holding a conversation with someone outside the car — someone that's not me . . .

Send.

Bunch of electronic cripples. They might need their phones, but I don't. If people want to talk to me, they can do it like they did in 1975, the 1300s, in 500 B.C. But I've never felt so...

Buzz.

I watch her configure another message. The light reveals a slight smirk as her fingers do the talking, finishing with a flick of the wrist that snaps the phone shut.

Facebook? What's that? I'll read "Jane Eyre." Email? I'm bringing back snail mail and...

Buzz.

The dark hides my growing shade of green and I wait for the sequence to start again. Three best friends riding alongside semi trucks into the night — a cell phone holding the only conversation in the dark Honda.

Buzz!

Can I throw her phone out the window?!?!! Doesn't she have a clue? I'm right here . . .

Day Seven

We're at the Minnesota cabin, and my techno-fast is fading fast.

"What time is it?"

"10."

"OK, only two more hours."

They want to watch a movie, but I'm so close.

"Not even a VHS?"

"I can't . but you can. I'll just read or something."

"What time is it?"

"11:50."

I decide to read "The Help" until midnight, but it's hard to concentrate.

"Asha! It's time! Turn it on!"

"OK, OK, I'll just finish this page and ."

"C'mon! Do it now!"

I grab the phone, my thumb pounding the 'PWR' key.

A red-and-white Verizon logo zooms in and out as the phone vibrates in my hand. I instantly feel powerful. Yes, I'm back.

I wait.

Where are they? The missed calls, week-old text messages, outdated voicemails, pleas to return calls, "I miss you" and "where are you?!?!?" texts. . .

Buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz, buzz.

OK, here they come.

Who should I respond to first? What should I say? Who should I text?

Mom. Yes, definitely Mom.

* * *

At 12:01 a.m., 206 emails, 12 text messages, one missed call, a whopping $147.87 payphone bill and endless questions welcomed me back to the wired age.

Truth be told, my cell phone and email use is back up to par. And while I'm not jonesing for my Century Royal, I kinda miss the simplicity of my week circa 1975.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating some techno-fast revolution: We need technology — our culture demands it.

But does it also demand a 24/7 submission to Blackberrys, email and fatuous Facebook friending?

So in the end, I guess I'd rather be that crazy chick with the typewriter than the hamster on crack, lurching at every phone vibration. I'd rather be confined by a payphone than shackled to a Bluetooth.

Now, I try to not freak about a 2-hour-old email. I'm attempting to leave my cell phone at home when I work out and I recently deactivated my Facebook account — maddening more than a few friends.

It's not that I don't want the dopamine drip every time my cell phone buzzes or I get 14 new Facebook notifications, but I know I don't need all the technology all the time. My week proved that. But it also proved I'm more of a techno junkie than I imagined.

So will I do it again? Probs not.

LOL.

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