For an old guy, I’ve managed to keep up fairly well with the fickle, ever-changing winds of technology. I can get around on a computer handily enough. I’ve done the iPod thing, the Skype thing and the Facebook thing. (Though I refuse to Tweet.) I even managed with only a minimum of cuss words to set up the new TV and DVR system, though it took me quite a while.
But for some reason I have an aversion to texting. I have the necessary hardware, consisting mainly of a teenaged daughter, a gadget-savvy wife, a cell phone and two prehensile thumbs. (Although as my arthritis gets worse my thumbs get a little less prehensile every day.) Yet I shudder whenever a text message comes my way. I refuse to go deep in the heart of texting.
For one thing, I’m slow at it. It took me years to get past hunting and pecking on a normal keyboard. I hate hunting the letters down on the tiny number pad on my cell phone. I know a Blackberry would solve the keyboard issue. But I’m resistant to delving into the Blackberry or Smartphone realm. I just want a phone to be a phone, something slightly better than 2 cans and a string. It doesn’t need to be smart or even above average. Hey. I’m an old guy.
I’m fine with being old. I really am. At my age I can play the “it befuddles me” card and get away with it. Or so I thought.
Then today I got an email from my brother in Tennessee. “Why haven’t you answered my texts?” he asked. He got some new technology for Christmas and now he’s texting. And he’s 14 years older than me. Great. Now I have to find a new excuse.
After all, the eyes of texters are upon me.
