Is There An App For That?
This Christmas I decided to drag myself kicking and screaming into 2013. I asked for a Smart Phone, even though I was enjoying being just about the last person I knew who was satisfied with a Dumb Phone. On Christmas morning, the Big Deal Phone was the last present left under the tree, ready to burst into my life, Da Da Da Dum, and turn it upside-down.
I wanted it and I didn’t want it. What I really didn’t want, though, was to make now the moment at which I decided that I just wasn’t going to keep up with the rate of change anymore, and was going to settle down forever with my arcane and archaic ways. I didn’t want to start being that old lady who couldn’t be bothered with a new-fangled contraption like a food processor, especially not at my age. So, I sighed and sucked it up and asked for one. Shel, naturally, obliged, relieved at the prospect of no longer being married to a person who never even remembered to take a phone with her when she went out. “You’ll have to keep it with you all the time” he reminded me helpfully, or maybe hopefully.
Since I rarely take anything with me when I go out except the barest of necessities, I had him take my teeny tiny Bagalini purse with him to the phone store, because the thing is designed, basically, to hold only 2 credit cards and a couple of twenties. He found a phone that could squeeze its smart little self in there: a Galaxy S. Not necessarily the smartest, but the smallest.
Its camera makes things look funny as you can see, but hey, I have a sweet Nikon. I’m sure it will make perfect phone calls. Being small, it has the daintiest of virtual keyboards, and my fingertips are wide and round and can’t type worth a damn on it. It tells me the time and the weather, because other family members who shall remain unnamed seized it right away to set it up for me, and put all sorts of nifty stuff on there that I have no idea how to use. But today I went off in a quiet corner, just me and Ms. Smarty, thinking that we’d get acquainted on our own terms, and let me tell you, she won in the first round. Kicked my butt. I could no more figure her out than fly to Timbuktu.
And what did I do about it? Persevere? Yell for help? Why no. What I did was go out in the kitchen, even though it was way too early to begin preparing dinner, and got my favorite knife and a couple of gnarly celery roots and a mess of Jerusalem artichokes. I slowly enjoyed peeling the celery root, a task that normally does not thrill me, and I relished the crisp knobbiness of the Jerusalem artichokes, and the slippery feeling as I tossed them all with olive oil and salt, and popped them into a hot oven.
Evidently I’d rather cut up root vegetables then Get With The Program. Is there an app for that?Explore posts in the same categories: French Letters Visits America comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.