You know you’re getting old when your young friends ridicule your low-tech lifestyle. Yesterday, I took a road trip to Nashville with three guys from my church. All of them are younger than me. All of them have iPhones. I, on the other hand, have an old-fashioned, non-internet surfing, beat up cell phone that I think was a prototype used by Bill Gates when he started Microsoft in his garage a couple of decades ago.
I don’t have a GPS either. I don’t like GPS’s because I don’t trust them. I once had a GPS route me through one of the worst neighborhoods in Atlanta simply because computers have no common sense. The shortest distance between two points is not through gangland crossfire.
I’m not sure what my daughters have against me, but I’m convinced they’re trying to drive me crazy. Take the other day, for instance. They know how I feel about the Milton-Bradley game called Perfection. They know how competitive I am. They know that I let them play with it for about five minutes last Christmas before commandeering it so that I could master it myself. They know all this, yet they couldn’t resist messing with my head.
Photo Credit: Stampest via Compfight cc
I’m not exactly what you would call mechanically inclined. I’ve literally spent hours trying to put new wiper blades on my car. Hours. When mechanics see me walk into their shop, they start high-fiving each other and calling their wives. “Hey, babe, looks like we’re going to put in that pool.”
It’s not like my dad didn’t try to help me. I think from a very early age, he could tell I had mechanical issues. Fortunately, the cars we owned kept breaking down, so he had plenty of opportunities to take me under the hood and try to teach me some automotive survival skills.