My iPod “Classic.”

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I guess this is, as the cliche goes, good bye.

We went through a lot together, dear iPod “Classic” (I believe you were merely an “iPod when I bought you three years ago, much as “Classic Rock” was merely “rock” when Dark Side of the Moon came out). I don’t believe it’s a stretch to say I could not have handled commuting each day without you, as you linked so seamlessly with my Bose headphones to help tune out the dull buzz of the hurtling train and my fellow riders.

Before we met, dear iPod, I was slapping cassette tapes–cassette tapes!–into a rickety old Aiwa player that’s slightly smaller than a Tom Clancy paperback. The ballyhooed CD Walkman just did not cut it, and I never thought I’d advance beyond the crummy old 90-minute Maxells.

Then you came along. Sleek, sexy, able to bear my entire CD collection in a package no bigger than a pack of Marby Reds. Whiter than the White Album, cloaked in a rubbery lime-green wrap for extra protection.

You gave me three years, iPod Classic, which I’m learning is a good six months to a year better than most people get. Then you sputtered. You froze. Finally, you expired.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate the effort.

As you might expect, if you were still responsive, a sleeker model has come along. Indeed, she’s–yes, she’s a she–barely bigger than a Triscuit, and really not much wider.

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Please don’t think I like her better. When you were resting on my lap on the 8:16 to Gotham, you didn’t go sliding off onto the cruel, filthy Starmucks of the M7’s floor, as my Nano–yes, that is her name. I believe it’s German. You stayed anchored. Your graphics were lo-fi and you didn’t show album artwork, but hey, what am I, a 14-year old girl? You did everything I asked, and more.

You rocked. You know it. I know it.

I’ll miss you.

Longingly,

TJ