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Technology is a mystery to me. I'm a 48 year old mother of three and lately and I feel like I've just arrived home from a major battle with the cultural technological machine.
THE ART OF GROCERY SHOPPING... My kids will tell you I can be heard on most Sunday afternoons pining for the good old days when going to the grocery store meant having actual conversations with real people. Nowadays, the shopping experience has been reduced to bar codes and laser guns that rudely shout a series of startling beeps and electronic grunts to let you know you've messed up the scanning process. Today the grocery store is a lonely landscape. You're lucky if you get a "Thank you for shopping with us!" from the receipt.
Even in the old days, grocery shopping was never really my favorite experience anyway. It took me moves to Boston, Atlanta and Ohio to realize it is actually better to smile, look the checkout girl in the eye and politely take your change. I'm a stereotypical New Yorker who tends to view the checkout line like the Amazing Race; where the winner is the one who gets in and out as quickly as possible.
When I first moved to Ohio, I practiced the etiquette of grocery shopping for months before I would even enter the local checkout line. I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror and rehearse my tone and cadence to get my affect exactly right in order to ensure a pleasant shopping experience. Years of practice have refined performance. On the rare occasion when I actually encounter a living, breathing human in the store who is willing to have an actual conversation; I still secretly roll my eyes as I hear my New York voice lilt through "Have a nice day!
THE END OF TIME... The other day, after arriving annoyingly late for several important appointments, I realized it was finally time to turn in my old trusty Timex. I liked her ticking round face and battered, lived-in watchband. She went everywhere with me wrapped happily around my wrist. We enjoyed our morning showers and the way we cooked breakfast together. We even plunged into the icy waters at our Lake house in Vermont together and dove head first into the summer swimming pools in several states. We washed the dogs, scrubbed the kids and hell, she even took a few surprise dips into overflowing toilets for me.
I spruced up her wardrobe with a new watch band last summer and that seemed to revive her for while, but not for long. I depended on her and she just wasn't keeping time anymore. I went the distance for her though. Last week, I went to the mall to replace her battery in an attempt to get her face to pep up a bit. The jewelry store guy reassuringly slipped the wafer battery into her back and sent us on our way. By the time I got to traffic light in the mall parking lot, I was late for the red light that got me on the highway home. She was tired and I realized I would have to put her down.
When I got home I unclasped her battered buckle and solemnly placed her in the burial ground on my dresser next to the other graves of single earrings, broken bracelets and of piles of gold and silver odds and ends. I'd actually meant to bring her to the crematorium to see if I could get some hard cash to finance my new watch! Instead, I muttered a silent prayer for them all and started off to the local strip mall in search of a replacement. The suburban strip mall is home to the neon- blinking, traffic everywhere, fluorescent lighted, massive parking lot, anything you could want, ELECTRONIC SUPERSTORE! I mourned for her a bit on my way to the superstore monolith as I peeked down at my bare wrist all naked and vulnerable like that. I repeatedly glanced at the time on the dash just, to make sure I wasn't late for myself again.
SHOPPING FOR A NEW WATCH... Finally, I arrive at The Sports Authority mega, monolith, anything-you-could-want superstore staring blankly at the watch display. I want a watch with a face. I like the idea of watching the second hand tick around the clock face, tapping each number as it spins around its circle, as though they were old friends slapping high fives as they pass each other in the hall each day.
I like the earth elements in the circular face of these watches. I like the way each cycle is divided into 12's and how the hours are segmented into neat, equal quarters. The five minute intervals seem like a bunch of nuclear families all joined together in one big, circular bash. I am soothed by the way the numbers relate to each other in a collective way and how the hour hand and the minute hand seem like a father and son. I like the way the whole damn thing fits together in its little circle-world. I feel like I can find my way around there, like I can always get home. Watches with faces sooth and comfort me and feel familiar. This is the kind of watch I want.
On the other hand, digital watches devoid of familiar round faces, spinning second hands seem lonely without the organized circular landscape of their number families. They feel hollow and give me the creeps. It's disturbing to gaze at their blinking squared off numbers faces and I am always jarred at the odd way they beep at random times. Even the eerie green glow they give off from their sharply lined faces scares me a bit. When I'm forced to enter a relationship with them, I'll glance sideways at the little alien on my wrist and wonder if it's recruiting me into its way of life. I wonder if I am being coerced into his weird alien, digital language. If I wear a digital watch too long, eventually I have visions of having to hire the "Coalition for the Freedom for Digital Watch Wearer's" who specialize in reprogramming the sorry sacks that were naively taken in by the promise of chronographs and reprogrammable wrist alarms.
Unfortunately, in Sports Authority, my search for acceptable wrist wear is futile. The only selections with faces on them seem to be men's digital watches, and they are big. After opening several packages and trying on a few, I end up with a snazzy, grey Timex number that is a good fit for my wrist.
TIME TO CHECK OUT... As I approach the checkout I am relieved to see a young boy who looks like he knows what he's doing. Nothing satisfies my anal mind more than a check out guy who is efficient, knows the register and his merchandise and gets you on your way. This guy has an added benefit of being young enough to possibly be a digital alien himself and may be of assistance to me later on.
I mentally congratulate myself for my good choice in checkout guys and befriend him little at the register. I act a bit overly friendly but quickly recall my training in Ohio at the bathroom mirror and work hard to replace my hard New York accent with a sing-songy, southern drawl. I coyly batted my lashes to conceal the secret New York eye roll. Digital aliens are very helpful to have on your side in the case of a future battle with your watch, I think.
I ask him to please open the package before I leave. Nothing frustrates my burning, efficiency based mind more than un-openable packages wrapped in impossibly hard plastics with tiny plastic rings that cement the item firmly in its casing. He breaks out the scissors and goes to work. He finally liberates the item and I am happy to have my watch.
I place it on my wrist, smile at it and try to like it. The process reminds me of when you meet your best friend's newborn who is really not that cute, homely even. You smile anyway into the little guys cooing face and pretend he's not really a wrinkly, old bald man with a big nose and receding chin. You hope you will grow to like him and reassure Mom that kids always grow into their noses. I complete my purchase, admire the new guy on my wrist, and head to the car. I cock my head to see if I can hear cooing from his square lips, then politely shift my gaze so he won't notice my wince at the sight of his nose.
Author Resource:-
Suzanne Wells is an freelance writer, poet, author and mother of three. She is a teacher of yoga, dance and Ayurveda. She can usually be found at sunrise ushering the sun over the horizon with song. Her unfinished book lies floating in the Internet clouds at http://www.roundearthsquarepeople.blogspot.com
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