Not too old for new tech
I recently read an article making fun of older people for stubbornly resisting new technology.
I took offense.
Sure, I panic sometimes. Someone at work will email me a request that sounds to me like “Go ahead and batch the router files to my SSP hub, unless you’ve got more than 3 gigs of stringpool data, in which case convert the Gauss packs into TPQRs first.”
My typical response: “No problem. Or—if it’s easier for you—I can just print it all out and drop it off to you in person this afternoon.”
“I still remember the first time, around 2006, when I printed a document from a computer several rooms away and thought I was Harry Potter.”
But I am not, as the article asserted, fighting new ways of doing things. Sometimes it just takes me a little longer to adapt.
As proof of my evolution, I dug up a column I had written way back in 2012, a time when I was struggling with all kinds of innovations.
Back then, the sense of confusion I felt regarding new technology was exacerbated by the automation of most—but not all—mechanical items. I recounted how one time, in the bathroom at a middle-school girls’ basketball game, I stood waving my hands under a paper towel dispenser for far too many seconds before realizing that it was not, in fact, the type with a sensor. And that all the while, a cluster of teenage girls had been watching me while stifling giggles.
I did own a cell phone back then, although—don’t laugh—I used it for phone calls. In the column, in a tone that sounds downright dowdy to me now, I questioned why anyone would go through the effort of typing out a text (pressing the number buttons one, two, or three times, depending on the desired letter) when it was so much faster, and more sociable, to call.
Of course, I had spent a good 30 percent of my youth tethered by a curly cord to a landline rotary phone. Back then, hours-long calls weren’t a means to an end; they were my passion.
As I got older, however, I grew to value my solitude. Now I rank it only slightly below food and shelter. Carrying a cell phone meant that I could be reached at any time, in any place. Ew.
With that lost boundary, and with new touchscreens that made composing texts easier, I shifted my “Calling is more polite” mindset to one of “Why would you make me have a complete conversation with all the social niceties when you could have just messaged me?”
I do, however, still answer phone calls, a quaint custom of yesteryear unheard of among the younger folks. And I have learned that when I want to speak to our kids, I must never, under any circumstances, send them a text that reads, “Please call me.”
Those three words imply, apparently, that I have fallen into a ravine and snapped both my femurs. You can’t imagine their relief (and anger) when they find out I just wanted to know, for example, what I should do with their old high school textbooks, which are taking up space in the hall closet.
As of now, I still use capital letters and punctuation in my texts—both of which, according to the article, younger people consider “aggressive.” But that could change.
After all, I’ve adopted a lot of electronic practices I never thought I would. I still remember the first time, around 2006, when I printed a document from a computer several rooms away and thought I was Harry Potter. Now, connecting to Wi-Fi—not to mention streaming movies, paying at the pump, syncing to Bluetooth, banking online, and talking to Siri—is part of my normal day.
I admit that, like most older people, I tend to fear new things and cling to the habits I’m used to. But I think I’m keeping up damn well. Sweet, naive 2012 me would have been stunned to see 2025 me in Zoom video calls—we’re talking Jetsons-level sci-fi magic—acting like it’s no big deal.
I’ve come a long way.
My smugness, however, took a hit at a high school sporting event this past weekend. I was in the bathroom washing my hands when I noticed a gaggle of teen girls next to me, exchanging glances with barely disguised glee as I waved my hands repeatedly, and futilely, under a manual paper towel dispenser.
OK, maybe in some ways I haven’t evolved.
But in my defense, neither have teenage girls.
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(Originally published in the Addison Independent March 2025)
