To better understand this strange viewpoint, it would be helpful to get a little background history. Remember, opposites attract. It just so happens that my beloved is a computer forensics expert for a federal agency that will go unnamed, but hereafter be referred to as "Phoebe." I don't like cars, computers, dvrs, iPods, iPads, video games, remote controls, programmable anything, Star Wars, Star Trek, On Demand, anything with the adjective virtual in front of it, or the food processor and bread machine that have occupied space in a kitchen cabinet for ten plus years, unused. In case you're wondering, of course there is a word for this and naturally, I have looked it up. Its called "technophobia." Unimpressive, I know.
How does one acquire this condition? No one knows with certainty but according to the highly respected, always reliable Wikipedia (wink, wink), its just like everything else wrong with Dawn - its hormonal. Here's the facts: "According to Dr. Mark Bronson, leader of Bath University's research department, it is possible that pre-natal testosterone exposure has the capacity to render one's understanding of technology easier, or more challenging due to its effect on the brain." Let's back up just a doggone second. Why am I just now hearing about this Bath University and why wasn't this tub-lovin' girl offered a full ride scholarship?? But I digress. Apparently it is my extreme femininity that is to blame. "Who knew?" asked the girl who couldn't live without football and is on course to belch her way into urban legend.
Those who have worked with me are well versed in my deep hatred for all things technical and chuckling as they read this. As a nurse, if you are my patient, you are free to choke, stroke, infarct, seize, code, catch on fire, vagal down, hemorrhage, have a c diff explosion, or go postal on me and I Will Come Save You. I will, or at least I will die trying. But for the love of all that is holy, don't you go kinking that IV. That machine smells my fear and its beep haunts my sleep.
I know what you're thinking. "Dawn, all you need is a little patient instruction." Let me just say, braver warriors than you have trod this path. All of my close friends and neighbors have tried to talk or shame me into change. My hairdresser tried to stage an intervention. Think of my poor husband; he spends all day with Phoebe and then comes home to this. My son Sean has had the most success with me and that is because he takes no prisoners. He is as patient a teacher as his father but as stubborn as me. When he decides its time that I learn something, he is relentless. I try to pull the parent card but he doesn't flinch. I yell for him to just fix it already, but he stands his ground. And now, I can record Intervention all by myself, access Amazon Prime, and set my alarm clock.
I am well aware that this fear is irrational. I could have my coffee already made and waiting on me when I arise in the morning, but I'm certain if I push the wrong button, we're all going straight to defcon 4. This very blog is always crafted first in a spiral notebook, then typed. When its time to post, the tension is like the war room during the Cuban missile crisis. Watching Paul and I do the budget every paycheck is comical to say the least. We sit, side by side, he with his laptop, me with my yellow steno pad and trusty #2 pencil.
It has come to this. I am the lone hold out. The last sticky note to fall. I am the one. The one who has finally succumbed to the pressure of progress. The one whose long-handed protests have gone unheard. The package is due to arrive tomorrow. So if you see anything on the news tomorrow about a change in our nation's security threat level, don't be alarmed. Sean will see to it that I don't blow anything up.
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