I dearly love my iPhone — in ways that are illegal in some states in the South — and I was in the Santa Monica Apple Store the other day to have its oil changed. The little switch that turns the ringer on and off had busted — in the most elegant way possible — and I wanted to see if I could get a new one.

Well, Apple apparently doesn’t make replacement little switches that turn the ringer on and off — if they did, they’d be $45 — and the nice hipster with the tattoos and piercings and fro-comb and disturbingly sunny helpfulness said he was just going to go ahead and give me a whole new phone.

Well. OK. I’ll settle for that.

So I handed him my phone and sat down and reached into my pocket to get my phone because I had ten minutes to kill.

My phone! My phone was gone! I slapped my pants pockets and my shirt and, oh no, oh no, oh— Wait. I just gave the Apple guy my phone. Right. Whew.

I just have to sit here for ten minutes, until they give me my phone back. So I reach into my pocket to get my phone and—

Dammit!

So I stand up and go play with the demo models.