I went phoneless for a weekend, caught a thief, and became a cougar

the best accessory is what you leave at home

The Guest List is Partiful’s newsletter exploring the social world we help facilitate. Today’s post is by Evie Goodman.

Going out without your phone is like wearing a little lacy lingerie set under your dress. No one knows your secret unless you want them to. You move through the room a little differently, like you’ve got a trick up your sleeve.

I consider myself a phone addict just like the next 20-something. I grew up in the digital age, I work remotely, I find myself spending hours on Pinterest instead of doing important things like vacuuming or doing my laundry. I have, at one point, deleted all social media off my phone only to log into instagram.com on Safari. It’s clinical.

So when I decided to spend an entire weekend going out without my phone, I thought for sure my left eye would start twitching and I’d be reaching for my back pocket nonstop. I’d be embarrassed by my codependency but desperate to be reunited with the damn thing. Instead, dear reader, I felt sexy.

On the first night, I went to a magazine launch party in Chinatown. The first lap through the crowd proved fruitless, I didn’t catch the eye of anyone who was also alone or I vaguely recognized. The people around me were intimidatingly beautiful, well dressed, and seemed to all know each other. I beelined for the bathroom line that thankfully snaked past the hallway and alongside the wall next to the DJ. I breathed a sigh of relief. This would give me at least ten minutes to people watch and regroup. I wasn’t sure how many aimless loops through the venue I could do before people started to notice.

I stood for two minutes. Five. At nearly fifteen, I checked the watch I had worn specifically so I could actually use it for once. It was dead. Great, I thought, blowing a raspberry. I was getting bored and nervous that I had been watching the same group of people for too long. This, my dear reader, was when the urge struck.

Luckily I was saved when I caught someone in line say: “The Blazers haven’t been cool since he left.”

I whipped around, eyes widening. “Are you guys from Portland?” They were. I was saved.

After that, any tension I might have felt about not having a crutch faded. Partying has been and still is and always will be a phoneless endeavor. When I looked around the room throughout the night, I found myself surprised at how little people even had their phone in hand.

Still, I was disappointed that I wasn’t having a bigger revelation. I wished that breaking free of the shackles of technology would feel more like the breaking of a shackle and less like another Thursday night.

Just as I was making my way to the exit, a man grabbed my arm. I looked up and into the eyes of a young, handsome blonde.

“Hi. Are you a fan of the magazine or did you hear about this some other way?”

“My friends run it, actually.” I smiled at him, “So I am a dedicated fan.”

Our exchange then followed the normal course of modern day courtship: what do you do, where are you from, what part of the city do you live in, etc. I learned that my young, handsome blonde was in fact young with a capital Y. Twenty-one and not a day older. Sweat ran down my back. I can’t flirt with a child! I’m practically ancient compared to him.

And this, dear reader, is when my dirty little secret came in handy. When he asked if he could give me his number, I leaned in conspiratorially. “I would but I don’t have my phone on me, sorry.”

“Here. Just use mine.” Shit. Being phoneless didn’t seem to matter much when everyone around you wasn’t. I set my contact name to Evie The 25 Year Old and bid him a good night, slinking off into the crowd as fast as possible.

When 6pm hit the next evening and every bone in my body protested at the idea of leaving my cozy apartment, it was the intrigue at leaving my phone at home and the hope that something would happen because of it that got me into my ballet flats and out the door.

Once I met my friends at the agreed upon location, only a few minutes late, I giggled arm in arm with MJ about what the night might entail now that I was phone-less.

“Should we have a plan if we get split up?” She asked.

I shrugged. “Probably. But I know how to get home from here.” I paused. “Ooh, I should have brought a little notebook to write people’s information down in.”

“We’ll get you one tomorrow.”

The thought of whipping out a pen and paper to write my Instagram down for someone made me smile. We climbed the seven flights of stairs and within minutes of walking through the door, I was too distracted by catching up with people I hadn’t seen in ages to even remember my phone wasn’t on me. In fact, it didn’t even cross my mind. There were always people to talk to, things to look at, music to lose yourself in. If anything, I was determined to make the most of the party I was at because I knew there was no backup, no text from a friend also out inviting somewhere potentially more fun. I was where my feet were.

I was ready to throw in the towel and admit defeat— going phoneless had seemingly no impact on me, and thus there was no story to tell— when on Saturday night I encountered a new but familiar feeling. The very act of leaving my phone at home was enough to excite me, regardless of my plans. It imbued the evening with potential. Maybe I’d overhear something I otherwise wouldn’t have, or maybe I’d get lost and have to find my way home like Huckleberry Finn, or maybe a handsome stranger would find my phonelessness so charming that he’d have no choice but to fall in love with me. The possibilities were endless.

Endless is the right word because on my final night of this experiment, I solved a crime. A crime that probably would have happened regardless of whether or not my phone was in my back pocket but my victory wouldn’t have felt as sweet.

We were at a concert to see Gwenneth Paltrow. Or Chris Martin. Actually, we were at their son’s concert but hoping they would be there to support. Pressed up against me on all sides were leopard-print-clad NYU students and men with nose rings. The girls in front of us passed a plastic bottle back and forth and grimaced every time they took a swig. To our right, a guy who looked somehow both fifteen and thirty-five was screaming drunken encouragement at the band.

“Oh, yeah, that’s what I’m talking about! You killed that shit!” People glanced his way and smiled. Until he stumbled into them.

That one is a flight risk, I thought to myself, catching him pawing at where my jacket was thrown over my purse. “Hey! That’s mine.”

“You sure?” He slurred his words. “I have one just like it.”

I scowled at him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

Two minutes later, I turned around and saw my purse sitting jacket-less and exposed. That little— I scanned the crowd but the thief was gone. Motioning toward the bench I shouted into Paige’s ear. “That guy stole my jacket!”

“Who did? The freak in the tank top?”

“Yes! I’m going to hunt him down. I’ll be right back.”

“We’ll keep an eye out if he comes back!” Charlotte yelled over the droning voice of Gwenneth Paltrow’s son singing fourteen lines of “What gets you going?”

I snaked my way through the throng of NYU students and out into the bar, where the bouncer sat eating a plate of shawarma and talking to the ticket guy. The thief was nowhere in sight.

“Hi! Did you guys see a short-ish guy in a grey tank top, super drunk, come through here? Maybe he left? He stole my jacket.”

“He did? What the fuck is up with people these days?” The bouncer looked annoyed on my behalf.

“You said he was wearing a tank top? Maybe 5’5? Did he have brown hair?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“I know exactly who you’re talking about.” He nudged the bouncer, “You know, the one who keeps coming in and out all night, asking people for cigarettes.”

The bouncer nodded, offered me a smile and set down his pile of lamb. It smelled divine. “One second, sweetheart. I’ll go take a look. He came back a few minutes ago and I didn’t see him leave.”

I said my thanks and made my way to the corner of the bar, where I had a great vantage point of the bar. If he comes back, there’s no way I’ll miss him, I thought to myself. I felt a little thrill go down my spine. No phone and solving crime! This must be what Sherlock Holmes felt like.

Five minutes went by. Nothing. I let my gaze snag on a couple who looked like siblings and a pair of friends who kept trading spots as they took photos of each other. I stifled a yawn. Ten minutes later and I was beginning to think I would miss the entire concert when a spot a familiar mop of curly hair. I sprang up from where I was leaning against the hard wood.

“Hey!” I shouted. “That’s my jacket!” With an aggressiveness I didn’t know I possessed, I ran up to him and ripped it from his hands. He looked confused, his gaze swinging around wildly. I could smell the beer wafting from his breath.

“I, uh— Are you sure?”

“Yes.” I snapped, backing away with the leather coat gripped firmly against my chest. He mumbled something I could decipher and pushed past me out onto the street. I turned around and gave the ticket guy a big smile, holding up my treasure so he could see. “I found it!”

He just nodded, bored. But his lackluster enthusiasm couldn’t bring me down. I practically mowed people down as I hurried back to my friends, a satisfied grin on my face.

No one cared that I had caught a criminal with nothing but my wits, but I did. I felt unstoppable.

After that weekend, I was hooked, and started leaving it off during gallery strolls and mid-week events and happy hours. The decision to go phoneless became something I did for myself, before the night even started, that made everything feel charged with possibility.

It’s not a wellness hack or a political statement or a radical act. It’s sex appeal, baby.