The other day, my husband took in his old cellphone to swap it for a new one. The 25-year-old behind the counter was impressed. "Hey, look at this," he said, summoning his workmates. "I bet you've never seen one of these before."
It turns out that my husband's device was the Model T of cellphones – so quaint that people under 30 can scarcely believe we ever lived like this. I, by contrast, have a completely modern iPhone that is powerful enough to steer a rocket ship to Mars. It's so terrifying that I scarcely use it. My company made me get it because I need an app to connect my computer to the office.
With every passing year, I feel increasingly like my husband's phone – a primitive relic of a bygone age. I vowed that this would never happen to me, but I was just as wrong about that as I was to believe that I'd never get wrinkles in my neck. The world is speeding up as I am slowing down. The things that are supposed to make life easier have made it so complicated that I can barely function any more.
The Globe and Mail has just moved into a new building. It is very nice. It has amazing views, light and air, and no duct tape to hold the carpets together. It also has new computers, phones and communication systems that are designed to make our lives super-easy and productive. The trouble is, you need a 90-minute training session just to make a phone call. The other day my computer rang and I had no idea what to do.
After the training session, I had a nightmare so vivid that I woke up sobbing. In it, I showed up to start work at our brand-new office. But I couldn't find my desk. People were bustling all around me, talking to each other in Slack and Jabber and other languages I have yet to master. They were all decades younger than me. I realized they had no idea who I was. I realized I wasn't smart enough to work there any more.
The next day, I met with a kindly young trainer whose job was to coach those of us who needed extra help. She had a ring through her nose, and probably a tattoo. She was very kind. When I told her about my dream, she vowed that she'd be there for me. "You can do this," she said, patting my hand gently. "After all, you've probably been through more technological change than anybody around here."
I wondered if she'd ever heard of white-out, but decided not to ask. I felt like Methuselah's grandma.
In some ways, my own grandma had it easier. She went from the horse-and-buggy age to TV. But at least she could turn on the TV and find Ed Sullivan. I cannot. Finding what I want requires a complicated series of manoeuvres involving three or four remotes. If my husband isn't around, I usually say the hell with it. It is also my husband's job to talk to the guy in Bangalore whenever something goes wrong with our modem/router/network, which is quite often. My job is to huddle under the covers and whimper softly until our Internet comes back.
I know that this is pathetically gendered behaviour, but I don't care. Whenever my husband complains about my technophobia, I remind him that he can't even turn on the stove. This is because our stove, unlike the one grandma had, is very advanced. If you wanted heat on grandma's stove, you twisted a knob that produced a flame that you could adjust up or down on the spot. Our stove is digital. It has a master control panel. Putting the kettle on to boil water requires a precise sequence of steps that call for high levels of cognition and dexterity. Half the time I forget a step and nothing happens. Don't even ask about the dishwasher. It beeps incessantly when it is through, usually at 2 o'clock in the morning, and we can't figure out how to stop it without getting up and opening the door. The truth is that my husband and I aren't smart enough to operate our own appliances.
The analog world now seems as remote as the outhouse and the horse and buggy. And some day people will marvel at it. We actually made copies of our theses using carbon paper. We actually dialled AL1-1394 to talk to grandma. We wrote 10-page letters to our boyfriends in script and purple ink, and sent them through the mail. We went to Sam's record store on Saturdays to buy the latest hit. We waited in line in the dorm room to call our folks (collect), but didn't talk for long because long-distance was expensive. We drank only one kind of coffee, and we went to the library to look stuff up. None of this was nearly as productive and convenient as the way we live now. But at least we weren't baffled by our stuff. That was a good thing.