My lovely mother, God bless her, is cursed. And having just spent a weekend with her brother, I can safely claim that he’s cursed, too. Maybe “cursed” is too soft a diagnosis, as my siblings and I have often jokingly wondered if with Mom it’s actually a case of outright demonic possession: does she have a demon who attacks her facility with all things technological?
Computers, cellphones, printers and TVs—you name it. Entertainment systems and the remote controls that come with them? Don’t get me started. If it’s a demon in Mom, or one with many offspring in all her appliances, it’s one that wants to draw the line at her electric toothbrush.
Yes, there’s a generational component in play. But might even that be more about generational sin, a legacy of dysfunctionality born long ago when our mechanically challenged ancestors quickly gave up on the frustrating task of turning the family swords into plowshares? Because in lesser but definite ways I, too, have been cursed.
Long before the iPod and iPad came around, I was sold the iCan’t and iDon’t.
For years I chalked up this quality to my Luddite leanings in a cyberfrenentic world. I was among the last of my friends to adopt e-mail or a cellphone, then among the last to adopt a smartphone. I hated the constant OS updates on my laptop, happy to stick with House Cat or whatever it was called while everyone else moved on to Snow Leopard and Mountain Lion.