The laptop I’m typing on now is several years old. It’s probably closer to 10, and 10 may be a larger number than several. I just know that all the popular keyboard keys are worn to a frazzle, their letters a mystery had I not taken Ethel Sharp’s typing class my freshman year of high school.
The laptop is so old (How old is it?) that when the power cord stopped holding power, I was in a fix. Its replacement cord is obsolete. We found a makeshift one that will work with the addition of the right plug, specifically with the last plug of its kind known to mankind. (Or at least to central Indiana just days before I had to leave on a special work assignment last year.)
Revived with its new plug, the computer did not disappoint me, allowing the production of words and the transmission of photos, news stories and blog posts I needed, and all the blog posts, Facebook likes and email notes I could muster since.
Brian told me I should transition to his laptop. He bought his own right after he retired, thinking that he would need it. Turns out he upgraded his phone and favors it over getting out the laptop.
He keeps asking me how I’m liking it.
I am trying to like it, I tell him, but it isn’t this one. His is jumpy whereas this keyboard is steady. His has a clean face with crisp letters whereas this one looks, well, comfortable.
I don’t know, but this old keyboard may have set some kind of record for number of documents produced. On it I wrote and published two novels, two-and-a-half years of blog posts, endless web searches, occasional news and feature stories and a bazillion emails.
While I enjoy nice things, I don’t get especially excited over those that are pricey, shiny, and new. Things can be nice and old. There’s zero chance, for example, that I’ll trade in a century-old (or older) pie safe for a new piece of furniture or that because honey oak is not the popular wood of the day, that I’ll paint my Seller’s Cabinet.
I like my old friends and my old husband. I like my older car and my job that is anything but new. I'm not inclined to give any of them up just now.
But I should take Brian’s advice, I suppose, and learn to love the much newer laptop; should make sure it’s loaded for bear should this one go kaput. I should.
Yet if his laptop is so smart, why does it always greet me with, "Welcome, Brian!"
Shouldn't it know I'm not Brian?
And wouldn’t it be ha-ha funny if the new one gave out before the old one did?