Unnatural Attachments

I have to buy a new computer. And soon. I'll probably get online with Dell today and put the order in because the one I'm typing on, according to a friend who knows these things, is ready to crash. It is nine years old, which in computer years is probably equal to cranking your Model T. Technology passed it by long ago. There are many things it cannot do, and it has given up some of the things it used to do so effortlessly. It has gotten slow. It blinks a few extra times before making a decision. Sometimes it freezes up and then limps along arthritic-ally. It is an aging soul.

I know I get too attached to things, but this beige-y old model has served me well. Compared to the new young things adorned in fashionable colors, it is a little faded and it's monitor carries some extra baggage in the rear end. That is perfectly appropriate. I'm grown accustomed to its look and sound and where all the lights blink.

Its been so patient when I'm reaching for a word that seems to have fallen out of my brain, and it has listened to my curses when my nonchalant muse takes extended breaks. I've read e-mails that have made me laugh to tears. I've been informed about many new babies, and have learned of the deaths of old friends while looking into it's eyes. It's been a lifeline in the hard times when my friends comforted me, and I've tried to return the favor. My family knows to tiptoe by when I'm typing away here, and that I'm so absorbed I'd probably not notice them anyway. Published pieces came from its innards, re-worked and saved over and over again. Multitudes of submission letters, and my self-addressed-return-envelopes so I could receive rejections in glorious black and white.

Time flies by when I sit in front of it's screen. When my house is asleep, this computer and I are word lovers until the wee hours. It was an affair that started at my own behest, and on such intimate terms. I connected all of it's wires and components myself, under my desk and in places no one else has ever touched.

How ironic I will order it's replacement through it. We will download it's years of documents and information into a shiny new model with a slim shape and a huge screen....a liposuctioned, botox state of the art number that I will get used to in time. But I will miss this familiar old friend.