In Defense of the Pager

(This and other content can be found on my substack at www.talentsherpa.substack.com)

In this era of 'always-on' connectivity, where we're practically harnessed to our smartphones like a hyperactive Chihuahua to a leash, I fondly recall the pager era.

Ah, the pager! That clunky device that proudly sat on your belt, a badge of importance, yet not so urgent that it demanded an immediate response. Remember? You had to hunt down a land line to reply. What's a land line, you ask? Oh, sweet summer child...

Fun fact: Before wireless technologies conquered the world, we had a mystical device known as the 'land-line.' Picture this - one phone, yes, just one, in the kitchen, with a cord that could snake its way through 2/3rds of your house. Ah, good old times!

Ah, the pager, the smartphone's caveman ancestor. So beautifully basic, it was practically a pet rock with buttons. No ringing, hardly any vibrating, just a little 'beep' to say 'Hello, someone remembers you exist.' And forget about sending a flood of emojis or ordering a half-caff soy latte, no foam, extra hot from your favorite coffee joint.

The beauty of the pager was its no-nonsense approach. To get your attention, someone had to dial your number, input their own number, and then... wait. Yes, 'wait,' a term alien to the instant gratification generation. That wait forced a deep existential contemplation: 'Is my message worth the wait? Is it pager-worthy?

The pager was our gatekeeper, our Gandalf on the bridge, bellowing, 'You shall not pass!' to anyone who dared to interrupt our day with trivial matters. No one would dare to page you about their culinary adventures at lunch or to share the latest antics of their overachieving cat. And absolutely no one in their right mind would dare to beep you about the whereabouts of the TPS report or if you'd seen the latest memo (but if they did, that would be… terrific).

Some might say, the pager was our mental life-raft, our bulwark against the ceaseless chatter. It was our sanctuary in the storm of buzzes, beeps, and bings. The pager was our sanity's guardian, providing a buffer from the world, while keeping us just a beep away when truly needed.

Alas, we abandoned our pagers for smartphones, seduced by the siren song of nonstop connectivity. We swallowed the myth hook, line, and sinker, believing more is always better and being eternally reachable equates to importance. We bartered our tranquility for the perpetual din of messages, emails, alerts, and never-ending updates.

We've become subordinated to our smartphones, checking them every few minutes like anxious parents checking on a newborn. We're terrified of missing out, of being left out, of being disconnected. We've created a culture of immediacy, where waiting is a cardinal sin and instant gratification is the holy grail.

But what did we pawn in this high-tech swap meet? We lost the off button, the 'me time,' the quiet chats with our inner voice. Okay, I could use less of my inner voice but you get my point. We lost the thrill of the 'call me back' cliffhanger for the instant 'read' notification. We swapped the bliss of white noise for a bustling internet cafe in our pockets. I fear we may need a time machine to reclaim the years we've squandered.

So, in defense of the pager, I propose a countercultural idea.

Let's bring back the buzz, the beep, the wait. Let's bring back the gatekeeper, the filter, and the sanity-saver. Let's replace our smartphones with a device that prioritizes our time, our personal space, and our peace of mind.

Let's bring back the pager, not because it's nostalgic, not because it's retro, but because it's necessary. Because in our insatiable desire for constant connection, we've lost something precious: the ability to disconnect, to be alone, and to be still.

And perhaps, in bringing back the pager, we might just find a way to reconnect with ourselves and the things that matter in the world around us.