I was at a conference last month.

I’ve spent many hours of the last decade in conferences of one sort or another. Mostly as a journalist where sometimes I was there to get a story and sometimes just there to learn about what the next story might be. I remember spending a day at a conference at the Wharton School of Business and coming home feeling like my head had literally expanded because I had learned so much there.

Other times I’ve sat in conferences and let the spoken words wash over me as I used the time to do other things. Sort ideas, plan logistics, imagine romantic conversations, scan the room for familiar faces.

But at this last conference I went to, I realized those days are gone. I sat in the back with my laptop, catching up on some email, grateful for the wi-fi access. When I finally looked up, I marveled at all the bent heads. Was anyone paying attention to the lecture? Doing more than glancing at the images on the screen between squinting at the one on their Blackberry?

Even during the break it seemed different than the, well, old days. Sure there was still glad-handing, still obligatory hello’s when you bumped into someone at the coffee urn. But smart phones are also wielded like security blankets: Don’t talk to me right now, please, I’m picking up an urgent message, I’m needed elsewhere. I actually had a guy sit next to me at lunch chiming in boisterously on a conference call while he polished off his salad and started in on the chicken.

It strikes me as odd.

Then something else happened. My husband was laid off from his job. It was a wrenching event for our family but nothing unusual. All of us are staring down economic uncertainty in one way or another.

But the upheaval has introduced a certain amount of uncertainty — which, I have to admit, I find ridiculously exciting in some ways. For example, there is a job possibility for M. in an exotic, far-away city and me, being the change junkie, I’m all for it.

So I of course get all ahead of myself and start poking around online and find the blog of a mother of a toddler who has moved to that city from the Western United States for her husband’s job.

And I start reading. And I keep going until I have read all of the posts. And I’ve developed strong opinions about this person. I have agreed with her and disagreed. I have met her friends and gotten to know intimate details about her family. I have judged her adaptation to this new life and considered how I might do things differently. I have conjured up advice I might give her (but never left a comment on her pages) and considered whether we might be friends if we became neighbors despite our many differences.

While the potential job has receded into the rear view mirror as a crazy idea we once tossed around. I still find myself checking this woman’s blog. I feel sad that one day I’ll probably stop reading. I think I might miss her.

And that strikes me as odd.