I suffered an Orwellian fate

Thus begins my confession….

            Things are still a little hazy as to when it all began.  I guess you could say it all started in 1984.  Back when Apple launched its first Macintosh computer.  You might remember the Orwellian ad that highlighted its release, but I don’t.  I was seven.  I didn’t care much about personal computing until I was eight.

            At about that time, my parents bought a Tandy 1000 that revolutionized my life.  I could now play video games at home.  I was the envy of my friends.

            We used a 3.5 inch floppy disk to resuscitate the computer each time we wanted to turn it on.  After a couple minutes of hard labour, the computer would open with its black screen and c: prompt, after which  we would be required to insert another disk.

            The process was no longer required with the arrival of the hard drive and the innovative dual disk drive.  The changes came so fast and furious that our computer was soon obsolete.  I don’t recall getting a newer computer until I was a teenager, although that could just be my memory playing tricks on me (but I don’t think so).

            I bought my first personal computer in my first year of university.  It was my first experience with Microsoft software.  I learned quickly.  The ways of Windows were burned in my mind.  I would spend hours clicking and double clicking, arranging files in new and innovative ways, even creating short-cuts.  The Internet had yet to be invented (or maybe I just didn’t have a modem).  But there were also weird computer crashes – things didn’t always work the way they should.  I wondered quietly in the back of my mind what Bill Gates was thinking when he invented such a glitch-filled operating system.

            Then came 2004.  I was happily married when my wife and I were given our first cell phone.  A Motorola flip phone that weighed just under two pounds.  We kept it in the car in case of emergency.  Even though I swore I would never own a cell phone, I could justify owning one for emergency purposes. 

            As the years passed, and my understanding of phoning over cellular networks increased, I felt I could accept a new job that would require the use of a Blackberry, then known as a Crackberry.  Back then they were so popular, today their future so uncertain.

            The Blackberry was a means to communicate like I never knew before.  I could send e-mails every moment of the day, even in the bathroom.  It was an addiction that lasted until my job’s sudden end.  Like the Blackberry, my future looked bleak.  I bought an ordinary flip phone to console myself.

            I told others that I was happy with it.  I wrote blogs of how much I hated smart phones.  But I was lying – most regrettably, I was lying to myself.

            But I used it, pretending to text elaborate messages that were really only three words long.  While my co-workers, and worse yet, my dad (now officially a senior citizen) were sending texts at lightening speed, I was left behind, trying to keep up with messages that wouldn’t fit onto my phone’s screen.

            Then I did something I thought I’d never do.  I went to a store and said I wanted one.  Still to this day I don’t know what made me go in.  Maybe it was the belief that the technological holes in my life could somehow be filled.

They said they were all out and I would have to wait.  Something was holding up shipments.  Some labour unrest in China maybe, but who could know?  It was all so complicated.

            Then I got a phone call.  I was to meet them at the store within the next three hours.  If not, I would lose my only chance (maybe I would have another shot in a week, but could I really have waited any longer?)

            At the store, the saleswoman gently opened the box and I caught my first glimpse of a four-inch screen.  She turned it on and it glowed.  Two gin-scented tears tricked down the sides of my nose.  But it was all right, everything was all right.  I had won the victory over myself.  I loved my iPhone. 

http://www.george-orwell.org/1984/22.html