I love new things. And somehow the little new things make me even happier than the big ones. I mean a new house would be so cool right now. But this new thing – my new phone – can fit, you know, in my purse. I can carry it everywhere. I won’t be haunted by the fear that God is going to let it burn to the ground because I love it too much and therefore “have an idol” (I know, oh my goodness, don’t even get me started on my strange ideas about God’s feelings toward my love of material things). And I got it in this very cool deep red shade because now every time I pull it out I will think of new lip gloss, or that beautiful red purse I got with Christmas money one year or those burgundy platform sandals that my husband hated and my sister said I looked like a Barbie doll in, and I can therefore persist in thinking that I am a deliberate nonconformist and that I pull it off beautifully – when the truth is of course that my predictable reaching for noncomfority is the epitomy of conforming – that’s why they make the red phone. But I’m getting it anyway. I am completely clothed and accesorized by 23-year-old advertising writers, and I don’t care. I’ll never remember that when I’m using my phone. I love new things.