My computer died this weekend. I don’t mean it’s acting up; my Mac geek friends can’t get me out of this one. I mean that the hard drive is kaput: the computer won’t even start up. It just clicks and whirs like an angry bird. She has left me alone. Don’t take for granted your relationship with your computer. You’ll miss her when she’s gone.
I loved that computer. Her name was Blanche. Our coming together was made possible through the magic of a student loan. She arrived on a lovely August day in North Carolina. [I would insert the picture of us together on that fateful day, but it’s on her dead hard drive.] We had a solid, good four years together. And a few weeks ago, she decided it was time to go. Were there warning signs? Maybe. But I was blinded by my need for Facebook and e-mail. And I ashamed to admit it, but I did shake her once, out of frustration. Never, never, never shake a baby.
I am without a computer. It’s an odd and slightly uncomfortable feeling. And this experience has made me wary of technology. But it’s not just my computer that has given me trouble. None of the clocks in my apartment keeps time. Our cable box is nothing short of possessed by some evil DSL entity. What signal am I sending out?
I’m making the choice to go old school. I want my photos to be in an album. What fun is looking at pictures on a screen? It’s like reading an e-book. No, thanks. And how do we pass our photos on now? Put our hard drives in our hope chests? I guess I’m just old-fashioned. I like to think of myself as a romantic, it appeals to my vintage sensibilities. But I think I may be in the market for a type-writer.