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I went to a great wedding last week. The bride was radiant. The speeches were witty. The dancing was fun. Everyone was having a good time, except for one guy at our table who looked miserable. He was restless and agitated, like someone dying for a smoke. Long before the cake was cut, he broke down, pulled out his BlackBerry and started thumbing. Perhaps he was firing off orders to unfortunate subordinates.

I haven't yet seen someone break out the Blackberry during a funeral, but, on the other hand, nobody I know has died lately.

A friend has a job as a subordinate. His company is under new management, which immediately issued BlackBerrys to all senior personnel. The rule is, they must carry their BlackBerrys at all times, including weekends and vacations, and must answer all e-mail from the boss within 15 minutes. My friend has a fantasy of flushing his BlackBerry down the toilet, just as soon as he pays off his mortgage.

But the truth is, most of us love to be on-line. It makes us feel essential. When my husband and I went on vacation with another couple last winter, our communications equipment could have filled a suitcase. The four of us had three laptops, four cellphones, a couple of Palm Pilots and a printer. These devices allowed us to work as if we'd never left home. Our ocean condo looked like an office.

"I'm hoping people don't realize I'm not in Toronto," said my girlfriend, who was finishing a big project. I was supposed to be recuperating from surgery, but I, too, couldn't stand not to be on-line. My husband was also working. Every so often, somebody would say "Whales!" and point at the horizon where a pod of whales was breeching. The rest of us would look up, say "Wow" and go right back to our computers. We all agreed that this was very sick.

If René Descartes were around today, he would have said: I'm on the computer, therefore I am. Personally, I never felt more out of the loop than during the last election campaign, when I was travelling on the campaign bus and everyone had a BlackBerry but me. All around me, people furiously thumbed away, absorbed in a virtual world of news and gossip and speculation that didn't include me. I was jealous. Their BlackBerrys were far more riveting to them than the actual events of the campaign that were unfolding before our eyes. Like the whales, real life can't compete with the little envelope on your screen that lets you know you have a message waiting.

I refuse to get a BlackBerry for the same reason I refuse to drink Scotch. Although I only drink white wine, my addiction is already bad enough. Without a BlackBerry, at least there are a few minutes every day (in the bathroom, say) when I am forced to fall back on my own resources. As it is, the last thing I do before I go to bed is check my e-mail, and it's also the first thing I do when I get up.

This is pointless, since all my overnight e-mail comes from strangers in Nigeria, but I can't help myself. I'm hooked. My husband criticizes my behaviour, but he's an addict, too. When I take my laptop to the country for the weekend, he fights me for it. And when I don't, we both feel strangely at loose ends. How did we spend our time before the Internet? We can't remember.

People's cottages used to be where they went to get away from it all, but not these days. These days, everybody has a dish for high-speed wireless. I don't know many people with the strength of character to disconnect. One of them -- unnervingly -- is the co-president of RIM. He has a big log house on a lake that BlackBerry money built. But BlackBerrys aren't allowed there. You have to leave them at the door. Instead of playing video games, his kids are forced to go outside, swim in the lake, catch frogs, and play with each other.

I suspect I'd be a better person if I did the same. So next week, I'm conducting an experiment. I'm leaving on vacation and not taking the computer. Although the prospect terrifies me, I'm going to go cold turkey. So please don't e-mail me. I'll be catching frogs.

mwente@globeandmail.com