In spite of my post middle age status, I’ve been forced to learn at least a minimum of computer know-how. It started several decades ago when my job required that I begin using a word processor. I was shocked and told my boss that I thought the secretary took care of that function. No such luck.
It wasn’t too big of an adjustment at first, similar to my familiar typewriter. The most foreign item was the mouse. Why do they call it that anyway? It didn’t exactly make me want to handle it. My initial learning curve trying to manipulate this gadget was anything but outstanding.
I must have conquered it somewhere along the way. I discovered this improvement the other day when my mouse was missing. I had to use the touch pad below the keyboard of the lap top to make mouse-like movements. Talk about awkward! I found myself almost pounding my fingers on it to make it work. Maybe mice (mouses?) weren’t so bad after all.
Over the years, I’ve adjusted at least to the word processor function of the computer. I consider anything more complicated beyond my pay grade. That includes cutting and pasting, transferring paragraphs or words and other actions of which I’m not even aware. I have finally learned how to send an attachment, which is shocking. I should probably take a class at the most elementary level.
My husband had patiently explained to me how to perform some eloquent computer skills, but I promptly forgot them, since I don’t use them often enough. He needed to slow down so I could write out every painful step, without using computer-ese.
The most exasperating experience I had with computers was when saving something it said “Do you want a read only copy?” and two other options I didn’t understand. I had three choices, none of which I wanted, but it wouldn’t let me save the item unless I selected one. If I indicated I didn’t want to save it, then I lost all the changes I wanted to save. Hopefully, no passing neighbors walked within a few blocks of our home while they could hear the shrill scream I aimed at our computer.
I ran downstairs with steam coming out of my reddened ears, yelling for my husband. He knew not to worry about my loss of a limb or heart attack from experience. He coolly proceeded me up to my office, while I relayed my emotional tale of woes about this evil machine. Then, with a few deft touches of his fingers, it was fixed. Oooooh, the nerve of that man! If I weren’t so grateful, I’d pull out his remaining hair!
I tried to calm myself breathing deeply as I sat at my computer desk, glaring at this obnoxious machine that liked my husband more than me. I knew for a fact that there was a conspiracy of machines in our home. They refused to perform as they should only when I was the one operating them. What did I ever do to them? Well, I’m sorry about all that yelling and pounding on the touch pad. But, besides that . . .
No, I think it was the fact that my husband had magic fingers. I can’t count the number of times the above performance had been repeated. I have struggled with can openers, locks, phones, TV’s, any kind of mechanisms. It wasn’t fair! Why wasn’t I born with magic fingers?
Dianna
Sharing the Fruit of Maturity
