My friends tell me I'm an old man trapped in a 20-year-old's body.
When I think about the fear and distrust most old-timers show toward technology and fast things, I wonder what's stopping me from filing for Social Security.
It's true: The moving pictures and loud noises do get confusing. Those pop-up advertisements are enough to give me a seizure.
Even the vocabulary is frightening. I don't know what a "kilobyte" is, but it sounds dangerous and should be locked up. And I almost vomited when I heard a passing boy say he "Googled" Hillary Clinton.
Progress? I'm about as progressive as the coot down the street who refuses to join the neighborhood Listserv.
"No, I didn't get your gosh darn e-mail about lawn decorations. The 20-foot inflatable Santa stays where it is."
I just can't keep up. By the time I get used to my old gadgets, those brainiacs come out with new, faster gadgets for me to spend my medication money on.
The next time I see another one of those stupid Mac vs. PC commercials, I'm going to bed early. I have to say, though, the sexy woman standing to the right of the stout fellow is enough to keep an old-timer like me up at 5 p.m. Wait a minute, I mean 6 p.m.
Those nerds need to invent something useful for a change. When they come out with something that alerts me when applesauce has been on my face longer than ten minutes, give me a call.
The other gray hair I've found is my general slowness. I have the reaction time of a boulder. As I told the weatherman on the television who suggested I evacuate, if nature wants to move me off my sofa, let it move me by itself. Otherwise, I'm not moving. Besides, my arthritis is acting up.
I don't understand these youngsters who pass by me on the escalator. It's doing all the work for you, I tell them. I suppose they just don't trust it to get them to the top.
I'm the geezer on I-75 who's going ten under, hugging the right shoulder like a ballerina's barre, my left blinker flashing for miles.
It's not that I'm not capable of moving quickly. With my grasshopper legs, I have to take incredibly small strides to stay at the back of the pack. It's just that I don't see the need to wear myself out.
Why do things have to move so fast, anyway? It's not easy remembering all the little things when they're zooming past you like a Model T Ford. My memory's spotty as it is.
In fact, my friends tell me I'm an old man trapped in a 20-year-old's body.
