I’m a spoiled broadband person. I’m used to casually accessing our super-fast T1 from the office and immediately communicating with anyone and everyone with ne’er a thought.  I’ve trained the teenagers at home to respond to my Outlook “invitations” with an “accept” message so they can’t claim they didn’t know about an orthodontist appointment or Aunt Cissy’s 80th birthday party.  And, although in-home wireless networking is the latest and greatest, we’ve used a wireless network for years after inheriting a cable modem from the previous owners of our house.  (Of course, I’m loyal to telecom but inherently cheap, so I take what is available until a better deal comes along.)

Interestingly, all of that connectivity has recently been challenged.  With summer schedules and teen boys, I’ve been working at home a great deal and have been forced out of my up until now spoiled broadband bubble.  My old and not-so-reliable cable modem blew up once and for all.  That gave me the excuse to order DSL Internet Pro from my local telecom company and dump the cable guys.  Without a second delay, my thrifty self cancelled the cable service so we wouldn’t be double paying for access.  (Yes, I’m that cheap.)  I thought it would be no big deal.  I knew I had a few days of DSL darkness while they provisioned my service, but I figured I’d rough it for a few days and run to Panera or the library to send emails.  I rationalized that since I write/edit most of the time, I really didn’t need 24/7 access like some other Internet addicts out there.

Whoa. Was I wrong.

This week has been the week from hell. I’ve run to Panera with laptop in hand, clawing at the doors of the store waiting for them to open at the crack of dawn.  I’ve listened to snoring high school students at the library “studying” for their summer school courses just to get a fix of free access. I’ve even resorted to sitting outside the Apple Store in my car to “borrow” their Wi-Fi so I could frantically work until my old-ish battery coughed up its last bits of power. 

It ain’t pretty. I’m clearly addicted more than I ever thought.  Only a short time ago, I wrote an editorial chastising the poor souls who couldn’t stand in line at the airport security check point without checking their Trios and Crackberries. Now, I sadly admit: I am one of them.

It’s sick. It’s pitiful. And it’s damn near bothersome. I ask of someone, anyone, to turn me off.  Make it all go away – puh-leeease! 

But, before I go cold turkey, could that special someone lend me access to the Internet just one last time?