Life’s subtle changes

In the vernacular of the day, my granddaughter told me to wait a minute.  She held up two fingers and said, “Pause, Grandma.” 

Then came back to me in a few minutes, gave me a thumbs up, and said, “Okay, Grandma, fast forward.”

I can’t keep up.  I feel like I’m pedaling backwards.  In the first ten or twenty years of my life, the only significant change was from black-and-white television to color.  Cars still guzzled gas, started with a real live keys, and air conditioning was extra.  My dad preferred letting us hang our feet out the window.  Kids roamed freely in their seats while being carted here and there, and never had a drive-in movie option on board.  My grandson got in a car with roll-up windows and thought it was really cool.  Who knows, maybe one day I’ll look at an oven (once totally phased out by microwaves) and think really cool.  (Though I doubt it.)

Remember the day when you laid out those old vinyl records.  You could turn any music into an Alvin and the Chipmunks song by playing it at 78 rpm.  Now I own media on flash drives, iPods, CDs, DVDs and Blue Rays.  They are not near as fun as flipping through a stack of LP’s. 

I received an email luncheon invitation the other day from a friend.  She had used voting buttons.  I couldn’t Accept or Reject because the mouse wasn’t moving.  The cursor looked like it had packed a suitcase and was leaving home.

My son texted me.  It’s the only way he’ll communicate with me.  I couldn’t text him back.  I broke my left thumbnail and every word I tried to text with my chubby texting digit containing an A came out with an extra long vowel – zsaz.

I’m intimidated by my Smart phone.  It has a higher IQ than I do.  I’ve heard of an app to take photographs of the front and back of checks and deposit them from an iPhone.  The next time one of my kids asks for money, I’ll take a picture of a check and tell them to take it to the bank.

I stepped on my digital scale.  It said I weighed 888.  I never should have had that second bowl of ice cream.

Everywhere I go, I hear voices.  I think people are talking to me.  When I’m shopping, I answer these chatty strangers back.  They ignore me.  I’m so insignificant that when I search on Google, my name has 184,383 matches. 

I went over to my good friend’s house, who has lived five blocks away from me for twenty years, to borrow an egg.  We Instant Message every morning and wish each other a good day.  (Or at least make a bet on whose day will deviate more from the ideal.)  A woman answered the door.  I couldn’t remember if it was her or not.

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