As long as I can remember, I've talked to myself. I sing to myself, too. I joke with myself and I must admit that sometimes I just crack me up. I say thank you aloud when I find my keys or when I see a butterfly or when seeds sprout. I can't really see anything wrong in any of this. It may not be normal but I don't think it's abnormal in a bad way.
Lately, I've noticed that I have to talk myself through tasks that used to be more automatic. Translating these blogs into a manuscript takes several steps that require thought, and for me, speech. In the shower I say, "Okay, wash your hair first, then your face." But I think it's only slowed me down a tiny bit. For the most part, I'm doing okay.
If the iPhone (dang its hide, anyway) would stop updating and if the Mac would stop improving, I'd have a much better time using them. I really don't think it's the fault of my brain cooties that I have trouble with them.
I'm having a fond memory of the first time I was allowed to make a phone call by myself. I picked up the big black receiver and an operator spoke to me. I told her I wanted to talk to Lee Wright, my neighbor. She said okay and connected me. That was that.
Now, I have to first find the little cell phone. It could be anywhere, and indeed has been. Then I have to turn it on, hope that I've plugged it in sometime recently so that it has enough power, select phone then contacts, then I have to decide if I want to phone them in technicolor or black and white. It's too dang many steps. The tiny little critter can do all sorts of things for me, answer bizarre questions about the universe, tell me where I am, map a course to get home, take photos and send them around the globe, play music for me. . . . . but one has to know how to use it to make it do these things and there are always soooooo many steps. I have many videos of my feet with me saying, "No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister!" And it's constantly making noises at me, not just ringing, but dinging and chiming and whistling. Every sound means something, but heck if I know what they mean, let alone how to respond.
When I was younger and behind a woman of a certain age at a check out, I'd get a bit impatient at her talking her way through everything in her purse to find the correct change. Well, guess what?
"Now, let me see, where are my keys?"
"Ma'am, they are in your hand."
But you see, those ladies were old and I'm not old, I'm just older than I used to be. I refuse to be responsible for not keeping up with technology. Those young whippersnappers who create these things intend for them to be impossible for people of a certain age. I think it's all part of a plan to thin the herd.
"Unfortunately the woman who called 911 was only heard to say 'No, no, not a video, I just want to call my sister.'"
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