Perhaps you've heard tell of a missive that comes from AT&T in the deep of night, delivered by elves, that wakes you from your sugarplum sleep with news too gruesome to believe: Your data is being taken away. It comes to those who purchased iPhones early on, whose early adoption was rewarded by two words we wore like a badge of honor: unlimited data. While friends who came onboard later were consigned to worry over every text—compromising their punctuation pre-Twitter—we could write lazy, spiraling, philosophical treatises on the lateness of the bus or the annoying qualities of the woman sitting next to us. We were indulged, like spoiled children who knew nothing of the world. We saw articles and TV news stories heralding data gloom and surcharges, but we'd been grandfathered—so much so, we ate that 3G for breakfast as we looked up the derivation of the term "grandfathered" to see if there had ever been a feminist movement to call it "grandmothered." We just learned for learning's sake, whenever we felt like it, wherever we were. We ignored wireless signals because they seemed ugly and tawdry, and laughed when friends requested passwords at coffee shops. We were on top of the world.