I am utterly reliant on odd assortment of inventions, devices, gadgets and gizmos; so long as the technology holds out, I’ll be fine. In my imagination, I am a survivor-type whose courage is a match for any calamity. In truth, I’m a technologically-coddled coward who whimpers when the DVR misses the latest episode of Dr. Who.
That’s how bad it’s gotten.
Really.
My ancestors had to decide what television programs to watch by actually finding and reading TV Guide. Fortunately, in those unenlightened times, the number TV stations was small enough to count on the fingers of a cartoon character’s hand. Scanning through a three-program listing and deciding not to watch TV was much easier than flipping through two-hundred channels and a half-dozen pay-per-view movies before deciding not to watch TV. The DVR makes the whole process even harder because now I have to decide not to watch recorded programs, too.
Yet, if the DVR fails, I’m devastated and suddenly the episode I missed was the “must see” program of the century. The fact that the DVR will catch it next time is no consolation. I missed my one-and-only chance to watch a recording of the premier of the newest episode of … well, it doesn’t matter what show it was. The point is that I missed it.
I wasn’t always a tech user. Sure I watched TV and listened to the radio, but I wasn’t into the really high-tech stuff. For me, the gateway device was an electronic calculator with a three-figure price tag and an LED screen capable of displaying a full eight digits. It was programmed with advanced features like addition, subtraction, and decimal division. In the right light, it was even possible to read the results. I calculated every chance I got. When nobody was looking, I’d sneak off and add up a few numbers just for fun.
Sadly, my overuse of technology soon meant I could no longer calculate without the machine. Simple equations like the sum of twenty-four and eighteen had me running to pound on the keys and complicated questions like the square root of nine vapor-locked my brain. Fortunately, I upgraded to a scientific calculator which had a built-in square-root function. That kept me going until I took trigonometry and then I had to buy another, even fancier calculator to feed my craving for technology.
Somewhere along the line, I realized that I’m forever incapable of manual arithmetic. It’s important to me to know that there’s always a calculator nearby in case I need to whomp up a sum or a product or a quotient. I’ve surrendered control of my mathematical life to the machines.
For a while, though, I retained my command of the English language. Smugly, I assumed that was one area that I could keep technology-free.
Then came word-processors. They were just tools to me. All they did was translate keystrokes into letters. What chance did that have for abuse?
Sure, the early word-processors had spell-checkers, but they weren’t automatic. The choice to use or not was up to me. I could resist….until I had to write out the word “accommodate”. No matter how many a’s, c’s, m’s and q’s I used, it didn’t look right. I reasoned that it wouldn’t hurt to use the spell-checker just once.
After that first time it got easier. Soon I was spell checking everything I wrote; term papers, short stories, shopping lists, even ransom notes.
When automatic underlining of misspelled words came along, I was in techno-dependence heaven. How could I possibly resist instant feedback on my every typing error?
The spellchecker has a cruel streak, though. If I use the word “children’s” with an apostrophe, the spell checker insists it’s wrong even though I know it’s right. At least I think it’s right. As with the calculator, my years of spell check abuse have rendered certain parts of my brain soft and weak and eventually I’ll agree with the machine which is exactly what it’s wanted all along.
At least the calculator and spellchecker aren’t trying to kill me; that’s more than I can say for my GPS unit. Driven by my insatiable urge for newer and better tech, I’ve upgraded to a turn-by-turn voice system that is bent on my destruction. It links to the cell phone network to pull up movie schedules, traffic information and the most effective way to put me in mortal danger.
Although its tiny mind is capable of calculating the fastest route from point A (where I am) to point B (where I want to go), it always insists I should make left-hand turns across four lanes of traffic at point C (where the ambulance will be picking me up). Every time I veer off course onto a safer and more manageable road, the machine announces that it is “recalculating” which must be GPS-speak for “finding the nearest dangerous intersection”. Yet, still, I insist on using the GPS even when I know where I’m going. That’s how tech-dependent I’ve become.
Sadly, I even got rid of my old-fashioned, low-tech french coffee press in favor of a high-tech brewing station. The simple and reliable press consisted of a glass cylinder and a metal plunger and it made great coffee so long as you didn’t mind picking two or three dozen bits of coffee out of your teeth after breakfast. Its replacement is a sleek, metallic silver device that wouldn’t look out of place in a Bond Villain’s lair or the Terminator’s breakfast nook. A built-in timer ensures that I can have hot coffee waiting for me when I get up in the morning; so long as I can master the intricacies of setting the time, programming the timer, and inserting water, coffee and filter in the correct order.
So far, all I’ve managed to create is dingy, warm brown water. I could retrieve my trusty press, but I won’t…because I’m technologically dependent.
