I’m not big into technology, mainly because I live in the bush and unless it can help split and stack wood, I don’t have a huge need for it. But, I am starting to get several different types of electronics, like a cell phone for one. Although, typically I keep it in my purse and turned off. But as is the case with these things, I have been edging into the twenty first century without planning it. For example, the other day my Fitbit informed me that I had walked 10.5 kilometers while mowing my lawn. I pushed that mower up and down banks, side stepped steep hills, and was chewed on by those little bastard black-flies that make this time of the year a living hell. To top it off, every step felt as if someone was stabbing the back of my heel with a burning knife. It was my Achilles tendon’s way of saying, “Fuck you’re stupid.” It took two long agonizing hours.
The only reason I mention the above is because today I went to a school concert, it lasted two hours. Two grueling, excruciating, torturous hours. The second I sat down on the most uncomfortable chair on the planet, old forgotten memories resurfaced. Oh yes, the butt remembers! But by then, it was too late. Too late to recognize that I’d sooner volunteer to cut 20.5 kilometers of grass on the side of a mountain than to sit through an elementary school concert, ever again. Fading affect bias is a real bitch.
It not that I don’t like children, it’s just that I don’t like to be around them. I don’t want to be touched by their sticky little selves, see their jam stained little faces, listen to their banshee screeching little singing, or spend the next two weeks recovering from whatever illness the little plague-infested miscreants have infected me with. Because they will infect you, no matter how much antiseptic lotion you bathe in. Now don’t get me wrong, I like, even love, the scabby-kneed, snotty-nosed short people who happen to be directly related to me, but the others...oy vey.
So there I was, squirming on a wooden plank designed by a sadist. My back ached, haunted by distant memories. My butt see-sawed between numbness and torment. And my brain, without conscious effort on my part, began to survey the room, planning my escape. Then the singing started. Here’s a question, why do music teachers hate everyone? Are they driven to homicidal thoughts while sitting in their classrooms, day after day, listening to out-of-tune instruments being played as if they were being thrown against a wall? Or did they have to sign a pledge in order to graduate from Teacher School? I solemnly promise to use only the following books: Songs Written by Muskrats, Horrifying Songs Made Even More Ghastly by Children in Groups and Songs That Cause Brain Hemorrhaging.
For a while, I took my queues from the hubby. He seemed to know when to smile, when to say, “aw, how cute,” and when to clap. It’s like there’s this whole secret language I know nothing about. Eventually, I began to resent him for it and started to feel stabby. On top of this, I hadn’t eaten breakfast. Good thing I didn’t have access to the nuclear codes.
Then I was saved, in the most unbelievable fashion ever! I pulled my phone out of my purse and turned it on to take a picture (cause that’s what the hubby was doing) and lo and behold, I had a message.
Lisa saved me. I love you, Lisa. Suddenly, I had me and ally. Someone to share the misery with. I didn’t even have to tell her about the chair from hell, she already knew. Then she sent me a picture of Arnold Schwarzenegger doing a voice over of Blue Oyster Cult’s, Burnin for You, and all was right with the world. I’m beginning to understand the world’s obsession with technology, and am beginning to grasp its usefulness, even without a cord of wood in the vicinity.