My name is Sylvia and I am technophobic.
Technology scares the crud out of me.
“Hover,” my husband advises. “Just hover and see if it is a good site or one that will eat your computer alive in chomping bites that chew up your fingers, your arm and eventually invade your brain. There’s nothing to it.”
My finger is not made to hover. It is made to taste cake batter and clean the sudsy rim of coffee cups. It is a courageous finger and can even check a baby’s diaper for poop, but please, I beg, don’t make me hover. Somehow I will twitch, as if there is a weight at the tip, like the long skinny-inner-lighted-extraterrestrial Hollywood version.
and the next thing I know some lady is talking to me in Russian. She scares me half to death. She doesn’t look happy
My forefinger slowly lowers, skims the top of the key, and the next thing I know some lady is talking to me in Russian. She scares me half to death. She doesn’t look happy I’ve called her from the other side, nor am I happy she is in my living room. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened to Trump. He hovered.
And then there is the intended click, not to ever be confused with the accidental-alien click. At work we are taught, “Don’t click it.” That is a fine art learned only when a trained index finger masters the hover. I have not.
My husband is patient with an overdose of tech savvy, which has its own set of issues. He understands that between the click and the hover lies an abyss over which I must prevail.
He is my coach.
“Just click and send,” says my husband. My hover goes into action. I cannot but hover like a craft. My finger is rooted mid-air, the song, “When will I see you again?” hums in my head. I’m hovering like it was meant to be, poised above the key, stiff and bent. I pull back before I hear the little airplane take off into cosmic infinity never to be seen again.
“Drag it and drop it,” is another one of those things he throws out at me. I might as well haul a dead body through the backyard.
I gird up my loins for the drag, but my drop bungees back to where I pulled it from, I can even hear it fly back. After a few times of this to and fro, my husband tries it. Not only does the drag drop, first try, I’m pretty sure it winks at me.
“Or, if you want,” he encourages, “copy and paste.”
I wipe sweat off my brow. I would much rather be using my index finger to fish out the nasty stuff at the bottom of the kitchen sink, which by the look of it, not everyone can do, or cleaning the rim of the toilet. Those jobs also take a certain finesse.
“Just don’t give out any information.”
Megahertz, shmegahertz. I’m not dumb. I know computers have worms, viruses, and trolls that pfish. That’s what tech panic is all about.
I squint at him as if he is talking Arabic with a southern drawl. I hover my finger his way for just a minute to make sure he is legit.
“Or you could air drop.”
I imagine tiny drones carrying my information to where he sits just a few feet away.
“How about if I just posses your computer?” he offers with a grin.
I’m pretty sure it already is.