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On a recent episode of The Ross Bolen Podcast, Grandex’s own Editor-in-Chief Ross Bolen declared that he was taking a stand and would no longer employ a protective case for his iPhone.
“What a fucking psychopath,” you might be thinking. Hold that thought.
This brave and public admission of caselessness has inspired me to share my own personal experience as a long-time member of the no-case gang, and why I believe a naked iPhone to be the decisive mark of a person living life to the fullest.
For the past two months, my iPhone has been as nude as the day it was born (built?). No protective case, no screen protector. Just smooth discount Chinese aluminum, glass, and whatever else iPhones are made out of — just like our boy Steve intended.
During this time, I’m happy to report that no physical damage has been inflicted upon my phone (despite its newfound freedom). It turns out being sans iPhone case is not nearly as risky as Big Phone Case would like you to believe. Imprisoning your smartphone in an Otter Box transforms a sleek, sexy, glistening miracle of modern technology into the bastard child of a lunchbox and a handful of LEGOs.
Additional protection for your phone is never a bad idea in and of itself. Additional protection is useful in any context, really. There’s nothing wrong with being prepared in the event of an accidental bedwetting, spontaneous cannonball, or bare-knuckle brawl with your drunken maniac of a brother.
However, at some point you have to stop worrying about shit like this and enjoy yourself. Do you really need your phone to be protected up to 100-meter depths? Unless you’re a Coast Guard recruit with a penchant for the impromptu selfie, I think not. I’ve been hit in the head more times than I care to admit. This doesn’t mean that I should walk around wearing a lacrosse helmet 24/7. Sure, it would decrease my risk of getting another concussion, but it would also make me look like an asshole.
I’m sure if you examined my caseless iPhone under a microscope, you would discover a number of scratches and other sign of wear. That’s what happens when you actually use something. I’m not entering my phone into a beauty pageant; I just need it to order Domino’s at 3 a.m. on Saturday nights while firing off regrettable Snaps to girls I dated in high school. A couple of dings and scratches give it character, like a fine wine that can send 17 consecutive “u up?” texts after a night of striking out.
As a junior in college, I test my phone’s ability to withstand all sorts of liquids and hard surfaces constantly. Sometimes my phone ends up in a puddle of stale beer. Sometimes I drop it. Even more times, I throw it.
Guess what? That fucker still works.
My phone may be scratched, sticky to the touch, and it may occasionally get a mind of its own and toss a like to my ex’s Instagram bikini pics at 3 a.m. — but these are all things I can live with.
Image via Shutterstock