I’m too old to use a telephone.
This occurred to me over the weekend, when I purchased one of those newfangled touch-screen phones that do everything but wash your dishes. Although they may do that, too — but I’ll never know because I can’t figure the thing out.
My husband went with me to get the phone. This wasn’t because I was incapable of choosing a phone —I had already picked out the model— but rather because I lapse into a drooling trance when I have to listen to someone wax poetic about technology. For me, technology is a tool, not an orgasmic experience. My husband, on the other hand, embraces the witty repartee of the techno geek, so he tagged along to play good cop to my admittedly bad one. Or, as it turned out, to watch the kids while I was wooed.
