In 1982, I felt pretty proud of myself. I could operate a word processor when most office workers still used typewriters and few people had personal computers. I was on the cutting edge of technology.
It was a feeling akin to the first time I filled my car with gas-by myself. It was something my mother couldn`t do. The older generation was waning; mine was coming into its own. I was one step ahead.
When the university library in the California town in which I live transferred everything in the card catalog onto computer, I didn`t stand around looking confused, but proudly went up and hit all the right buttons.
But as they say, what goes around comes around, and my self-satisfaction about dealing with technology was shattered last year-at a service station.
The station was self-serve. I left the car and went into the mini-grocery to present my gas card to the attendant.
”What`s this?” she asked, affronted.
”I`m filling up.”
”I don`t do this,” the attendant said; turning, she pointed to my car.
”Pay the computer.”
”What?” Dazed, I was sure I had misheard.
”You pay the computer at the pump.”
Bewildered, I walked back to my car. One of life`s basic rules was changing. I felt like someone taking the wrong turn in the Twilight Zone-undoubtedly something bizarre and disastrous lay ahead.
Reaching the pump, it was just the computer and I, and I resented it. Where was the warmth? Where was the human contact? Where was the guy who was going to help me get my gas cap off?
I slipped my credit card into the slot. It came back. Tried again. It went in. Then the computer asked did I want credit or debit. What did that mean? My card was a credit card; maybe I should push ”credit.” But I was paying money and therefore debiting. Meanwhile, the computer sent out a steady stream of beeps, like a time bomb or a heart monitor.
For no good reason, I hit ”debit”-thankfully, the right choice. As I filled my tank, an advertisement for motor oil ran across the computer monitor. Finally, the tank filled, the machine spit out my credit card and a receipt. Typical, I thought; they could program in an advertisement, but not a thank-you.
Driving away, I realized that at 40 I was becoming a technological illiterate. But I have to admit that even before meeting the computerized gas pump, I had already shown signs of my decline. I learned to program my VCR but have never been able to do it without two or three false starts. And innovations are beginning to annoy me. For example, I don`t like being awakened by a phone call from my vacationing friend`s computerized security system to hear (in computer monotones) that the temperature in my friend`s house is a few degrees higher than it should be.
As the 20th Century ends and the 21st approaches, we have been promised by the experts that what lies ahead is mind-boggling. But I don`t think there`s anything new about the idea that the older you get the harder it is to adapt. I`m sure there were plenty of gray-haired cave dwellers who never managed to play with fire without getting burned.
