Going Analog for a Weekend 

Turning the clock back to ’92.

As a Gen Zer, I’ve never known a life without instant connectivity. I’ve been receiving emails since I was 8 and spent much of high school on Instagram. The web has always been accessible—and it’s officially
too much.

Not to say the internet isn’t fun. Case in point: Substack, tweets poking fun at politics, Wikipedia wormholes.

But the fatigue of data-farmed ads, AI images and carrying my phone like a security blanket was growing apparent—and oppressive. And it’s not unique to younger gens—everyone seems to be craving a break from blue light, dating online, doomscrolling and all the side effects that come with it. It seems we’re incapable of doing simple tasks, like waiting on an elevator or boiling water, without starting to scroll.

My solution? A cleanse—three days without any technology post-1992. I turned off all tech—no cellphone, laptop, streaming platforms or internet—and set foot in a ’90s sitcom-like environment, sans the laugh track. 

Giving up modern tech spotlighted why it’s commonplace—my days were filled with minor but noticeable inconveniences in its absence. Realizing how often I use my phone flashlight, I lugged around a giant camping lantern when necessary. I dug up batteries to revive an ancient wooden analog clock so I had a clock apart from my stove (the alarm feature had one volume: loud). 

The most apparent struggle was keeping up with the news cycle—I resorted to the radio over newspapers, and in poor timing, major geopolitical news broke during my three-day blackout as the U.S. captured the Venezuelan president. I only found out because my friend called to tell me the Pentagon pizza index—late-night takeout frequency around the Pentagon, sometimes indicating military activity—spiked.

I wasn’t able to easily secure a landline, so I used an at-home-only flip phone with no contacts saved. For the first time since grade school, I memorized my friends’ numbers. 

My weather app was replaced by the occasional forecast on the radio; Spotify by a pocket radio with headphones and a collection of CDs in my car; and instead of Ubering, I resorted to my own two feet, or my car keys and a one-drink maximum. Roaming around phone-free was uncomfortable, then liberating. Why do we feel the need to text at red lights and cocktail bars anyway?

There were plenty of modern conveniences I was more than happy to escape from. Paying for parking with change is far less stressful than navigating parking apps, watching movies with a VCR meant no intermittent ads (and I learned that giving old tech a good whack truly does work), and I would love to never scan a QR code menu again. 

The inconveniences forced me to appreciate the smaller components of life, details I usually brush over. Coming home to a voicemail from a friend was sweeter than feeling my phone buzz, and my usual surplus of blurry iPhone pics wouldn’t stack up against the film photos I took of my friends. Driving to go shopping in person was worth getting to strut around in funky shoes I wasn’t going to buy, but still had fun trying on. 

There was time for all this milling about and messing around because I wasn’t spending hours sucking in blue light. Small luxuries, like presence and privacy, were far easier to come by. Curiosity was satisfied by having a think or thumbing through a book rather than asking Google. 

Unfortunately, relinquishing tech forever isn’t an option if you want to participate in society. But giving your brain a break doesn’t have to mean going back to the Dark Ages. Read: You can microdose healthy and desirable components of a ’90s lifestyle while still indulging in some modern conveniences. Whether you go completely clean or not, the small discomforts are well worth the more fulfilling, romantic and thought-provoking time spent in the real world.