April 11, 2008

The morning I woke up, looked in the mirror, and howled, "The horror!  The horror!"  should have been my first clue.  As I stared into the mirror, the face looking back at me had crows' feet, puffy bags, extra neck tissue, and grey straggles in the hair.

I have become an old woman.  Or at least a middle-aged mother.

When I sat with my friends, before we went in to hear a comedian the most important thing was a pitstop to avoid embarrassment mid-joke in a belly laugh.

Then my teen-aged daughter told me someone had - like - an old hairstyle that dated all the way back to the nineties.   Ten years ago is no longer a long time.  Twenty years cannot be a long time either.

As I teach computer classes, I teach font facts.  Yes, those 10-point fonts looked nice once upon a time.  Now, put that letter in a 12 point minimum if you want me to read it without getting a headache.  My eye doctor says I need bifocals, but I know better.  Those are for old people, and I'm only middle aged.  God made my arms long so I can hold things when I read them.  

Then there's technology.

This instant message thing didn't make sense.  I tried it at night with a friend after hours, and we borrowed our daughters' AIM accounts.  The next day, I realized I didn't delete our conversation.  So our daughters got to read what WE instant messaged.

And I teach computers.

If you call my cell phone, don't leave a message as I don't know how to retrieve it.  Last I heard, the mailbox was full. I tried Bluetooth, but couldn't figure out how to answer the phone. 

In addition, I suspect my former cell phone was possessed.  It started dying mid-conversation.  At first I thought it was divine intervention because it only died when I started to gossip.  Then it started dying all the time.  And you KNOW I can't gossip ALL the time.  Then the OK button only worked half the time.

Two weeks ago I don't know how it happened, but my husband's picture appeared on phone whenever he called.  Both kids denied doing it.  That one is still a mystery.

Finally, today, the phone started automatically turning itself off and on.  Twenty times an hour.  And the OK button stopped working.  And I took care of this phone, unlike the last one, which once I forgot and left on top of my car.  Overnight.  Outside.

It was time to get a new phone.  As bad luck would have it, I bought my phone at a mall kiosk and have to go to the mall for service.  There is a reason the word mall is a four letter word; I despise shopping there.

But I thought this time, I would shop quickly.  So I turned a sharp turn to get into a parking spot on the end so I could dash in and out.  The young salesman marked me as an easy target.  "If you buy the combination deal, you can get a memory card for your music."

"I don't need music on my phone.  I'm old."

"Right now, it's only half price."

"I'm old."

I asked why my last cell phone bill had a 20-cent charge for a text message.  I don't know how to do that either.  "For just a little extra money, you can buy text message service too."  

"I'm old."

"You might need it."

"I'm old."

Finally, I got the new phone.  

Then, when I returned to my car, I realized I had made too sharp a turn and left the steering wheel in the wrong place so it wouldn't start.  There's a 3-step routine to fix it.  But I got confused, pulled the steering wheel wrong, and set the car into anti-theft protection mode.

The car manual lists index items for people who know car parts - not for me.  So I tried the new phone to call my husband and ask him over the phone what to do.  My inner blonde had by this time taken possession of what brain cells I have left, and nothing he said made sense.  So he had to drive to the car to fix the steering wheel and start the car.  Of course it was no problem.  When we got home, he bookmarked that page in the car manual and highlighted what exact steps I should follow when I do that again.  

Maybe this is why the kids of one of my friends programmed HER cell phone to play the "I Love Lucy" theme when I call.

The problem with a new phone is it has to be programmed.  My daughter grabbed it to ooh over the new features I don't understand.

Of course the charger can't work like the last one, and it took me five minutes to figure out where to plug it in.  There's a camera, and I struggled.  Does anything ever have an on switch?

After half an hour, I took a picture of my son, who by this time was crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue.  When I took his picture, the phone talked to me.

"Say cheese."

Now I was in trouble.  Did the phone talk, or was I hearing voices?

The problem was solved when my daughter said, "I did that!  Knew you would like it."

It's bad enough stopping kids from talking back to me.  Now my phone does too.

I have become an old, old, old woman and have no idea where I left middle age.  It must be temporarily misplaced beside wherever I last laid my car keys.