Learning Curve

     If I look a little dazed and confused lately it’s because my brain’s processor is working overtime. Last month threatening messages started popping up on my hardworking laptop. Support for XP was disappearing. I clicked on the details and asked my “tech team” (family) to translate what this meant to me. 

How could I fix it? What could I download? They broke it to me un-gently. “Just get a new laptop! Yours is so old it doesn’t have enough room on it to handle any fix you could download.”

     To me it doesn’t seem old. But apparently in electronic years, nine years is ancient. My laptop was a hand-me-down from John when he upgraded. I was thrilled not to be tethered to a PC at an actual desk. I could write and surf the web while sitting in front of the TV or in bed if I felt like it. I could set the laptop up beside my sewing machine to watch instructional YouTube videos of sewing techniques. I could carry it with me whenever and where ever I traveled. It’s been so well used that the white letters on the keys for E, R, T, H, N, and M are completely worn off.

     The charger and battery died about six months ago. I was “encouraged” at that time to get a new laptop, but instead I bought a new charger and battery. The sales guy gave me a funny look when I refused his offer to recycle my dead charger. His eyebrows raised even higher when he turned it over and saw the warning masking taped to the bottom of it, written in Sharpie: “MOM’S CHARGER DO NOT TAKE!!!”

     When the kids were in college, our laptop chargers were interchangeable. They would come home, leaving their charger at school, borrow mine and then take it back across the state with them. That charger was mailed back and forth across Washington in the small flat rate box at least five times. I know it’s ridiculous, but I’m a little sentimental about it.

     I did eventually face the inevitable. For part of my seasonal job, I’d be working from home, so a new laptop was a necessity that couldn’t be delayed any longer. I started shopping. It wasn’t that hard. I wanted the same Dell Inspiron, just a newer version. My “tech team” recommended how much space and power I needed. I tested out the keyboard in a real store then went online to take advantage of their online discount. I pushed the Enter key on my old faithful laptop and its replacement was on its way.

     Unwrapping this sleek new laptop was almost as exciting as getting a new car. For two weeks I have been taking my haphazard crash course in how to use Windows 8, and all the new features now at my fingertips. I’ve signed in every day on my new best friend.

     As if that wasn’t enough excitement, for Mother’s Day, I got a shiny, new cellphone. I was waffling between a Samsung Galaxy and an I-phone. A friend with a Samsung Galaxy asked what the rest of my family had. I-Phones. She recommended I get the same, “Then when you’re confused about how it works, they’ll be able to help you.”

     I added, “Yep, and they’ll be able to steal my charger too!” That’s always a plus. Maybe I should get the masking tape out now.

     My old flip phone sits abandoned beside my old laptop. No more texting with ITAP on another set of worn keys. No more having to empty my inbox to receive more text messages. 

     On my I-Phone I can download pictures from my laptop, and check my email or Facebook. When John’s out of the country, he’ll be able to reach me much more easily. Siri will be able to help me in infinite ways.

     Johnny loaded my I-tunes, Words with Friends, and Candy Crush on it, gave me a basic half hour overview of how to use it, and left with the parting words, “Just keep trying to use it. Don’t throw your hands up in the air and quit!”

     Yesterday, the perfect storm hovered over my working from home desk aka dining room table. I had to reconfigure and download some things on the laptop for the seasonal job. For two hours I struggled trying to do it myself from the seven pages that had been emailed to me. 

     I get flustered when people try to talk me through on the phone, but I gave up and dialed the number—on my new I-phone. I navigated their help menu until a young lady who sounded about the age of my daughter answered. I silently prayed that she had a good relationship with her mother and would have mercy on me.

     I am fearless about clicking on things and only superficially stupid about tech issues. The thing is, while the rest of the working world got the internet, and email, and computers, I had left the office to be a stay-at-home-mom. While I was changing diapers and driving kids around, the world really did pass me by. I know exactly how Rip Van Winkle felt when he woke up.

     The first thing my guide did was direct me to go to my Control Panel. I hesitated. She calmly asked if I was on my desktop. On my old laptop, Johnny got so frustrated with me not knowing where or what my desktop was, he made my desktop be an image of Indiana Jones’ wooden desk top.

     That’s not on my new laptop, and the icon that you click on to get there only magically appears if you put the cursor in the top right corner. At least I knew that. I found my way to my desktop. I was really hoping she wouldn’t ask me any questions like, “How many gigabytes does your laptop have?”

     I apologized and explained to her that I’d only had this laptop for two weeks, and I also had a brand new phone that I’d only had for a day. I didn’t know how to put it on speaker phone, so I was typing with only one finger. (At least the keys have letters though!) She giggled and was very patient. Thirty minutes later I was good to go. Big sigh!

     Today when I was talking to Sarah, the new phone buzzed in my hand startling me. I almost dropped it. I thought someone else was calling. She told me it was just a new email message in my inbox. Her low-tech instructions on how to move the icons around were tailored especially for me, “Just hold your finger on the icon until it wiggles. Then drag it wherever you want it.”

     As if all this isn’t enough learning to make my head hurt, John came home one day and announced that a new dance club named Grit City Ballroom had opened in Tacoma.

He excitedly told me that they have free Jitterbug lessons. I’ve wanted to learn how to Jitterbug since I was a kid. Ten years ago I was pestering him about it with a “we’re getting old, it’s now or never” attitude. Fast forward ten years. Now I’m not sure I’ve got the physical energy or stamina to Jitterbug.

     So, one Friday, after a long day at work, there we were lined up in a dance class. We’ve taken ballroom dance classes before and our downfall is that when we get confused, no matter what dance we’re supposed to be dancing, for instance the Foxtrot, we end up doing the Hustle. That’s the dance that John taught me when we started dating during disco’s heyday.

     Our teachers were experienced. I was disappointed because they were teaching us West Coast Swing, not the Jitterbug. They had us go through the steps individually. Then they split us up into leaders and followers. We took turns dancing with different partners. Most of them were very nice. But, one young guy, a flashy dresser with a fedora, smirked when I stepped in front of him and introduced myself. I was the oldest female there, but I’m pretty sure I surprised the whippersnapper. When the lesson ended, it was time for free dancing.

    John and I assumed the right stance, holding hands out in front of us as if we were holding a tray. We both started on the right foot. I was not used to starting moving forward. John was counting for us: one, two, triple step, triple step. We got going, and then presto, it turned into the Hustle: triple step, triple step, five, six. They are similar dances, which made it very easy for us to slip back into the familiar when we got to the triple steps.

     The music was slower and smoother than Jitterbug music. The teachers had told us that the steps for the Jitterbug were the same as what we were learning for West Coast Swing, but for the Jitterbug, you bopped up and down instead of moving smoothly.

     I was bored with West Coast Swing.

     I wanted to hold John’s hand, lean back, hop around, throw my other hand up in the air and Jitterbug all out like they did in the 1940s. So that’s exactly what I did! I danced with wild abandon! For about thirty seconds. Then I sat down and told John that I’d hurt my ankle clowning around. I limped downstairs, out into the night.

     So while I was learning all the laptop and I-phone stuff, my left foot with the swollen, probably sprained ankle was propped up on a chair with an ice pack on it. I know that sometimes learning can be painful, but did it have to be so literal?

Laura Keolanui Stark is trying to find her list of user ID’s and passwords, and adding a dictionary app to her phone. She can be reached at stark.laura.k@gmail.com.