A silent fear that nags at me from time to time is the fear of obsolescence—a fear of youth, really. A fear that my model series is not only being phased out and replaced with sleeker, faster, more aesthetically pleasing models, but soon will no longer be supported at all. No more extended warranties, no upgrades, no enhancements, no software patches, no backwards compatibility and, finally, no replacement parts.
The only part of me worth salvaging at all is the data on my hard drive, but there seems to be a declining interest even in that. A common conceit of youth is the smug certainty that the experiences of the young are new, somehow different from all experience of those who came before and, in any event, that the data record is likely corrupt and will, at best, be difficult to retrieve. I tell myself that this isn’t so, but how would I know?
I watch the newer models flying through their workday while I struggle twice the time to produce half their total output. I watch the young bucks jog past me and soon disappear over the top of the far hill as I labor to complete my afternoon walk, shortening the course today in deference to the pain in my legs. And, yes, I resent it.
Then, a comforting, even somewhat amusing thought, washes over me, and suddenly things are all better. Mary Ann has made lunch.
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The sound of the Good Humor truck does it for me!