The first time I remember being phubbed was at Olive Garden. I had met a friend for dinner to catch up on each other’s lives. Every time a notification dinged and lit up her phone, she checked it and engaged in some back-and-forth texting, saying at one point, “Sorry, it’s my husband.” Although she didn’t mean to be disrespectful, that’s how it felt. I didn’t want a half-hearted apology. I wanted her attention.
Can’t she get away for two hours?