My hand hurts, my fingers are tired and my wrist is killing me. This danged ole iPhone has taken over my life.

I am surgically attached to this device. I react to emails and texts constantly and talk to people all day and deep into the night. I do everything on my phone.

Isolation has made even those of us with spouses feel lonely sometimes. And all my friends are on my phone. They reach out to me—and I to them—with music-biz gossip, sports commentary, stock tips, TV and book recommendations and, of course, updates and speculation on the waking nightmare that is modern politics.

I reply and chat for awhile. Or I reach out to others to say hi or to get answers or share info or, or, or, or, or.

This is the New Normal for me: neverending iPhone mania.

I’ve tried to stop. Just today I took a break to baby my aching wrist. Then came a Facetime from my oldest grandson. I grabbed the phone; he and I chatted about the Clippers. It made me happy. I can’t hug my grandchildren these days, but Facetime calls perk me up.

Steve Jobs created a product that no one knew they needed, and now we can’t live without it. Mediabase lives there; sports scores live there; the weather lives there, the news lives there. Heck, everything lives there. But most of all, even in the midst of quarantine, my mishpuchah lives there.

How are we supposed to turn that off?