So, my car was in the shop for a month while the mechanic
replaced a fuel pump and assorted parts that seem unusually hard to secure
given that the car is foreign. And old. I got it back about a week ago, and
yesterday I noticed some fluid leaking from the undercarriage. After contorting
himself to try and figure out what it was and where it was coming from, my
husband declared it oil, leaking from some age-pitted connector tube (I’m sure
he called it something else but I’m not going to bother trying to dredge my
memory banks for the actual term – see third paragraph for why). The car was
born in 1998, by the way.
Last weekend, our computer’s hard drive went down.
Irreparably. We carried it into our not-so-local Apple store. “Oh,” said
another customer as we walked by the iPad table where he and scads of other
people were fiddling around on the testers, “I remember that model.” During our
appointment at the Genius Bar, the tech (nice guy, very sympathetic) weathered
giving me the information that the drive was done and that there was no way to
retrieve any data (i.e., my two completed novels, a manuscript-worth of short
stories and poems – most of them not backed up since the last ice age, if
ever). “But, you’ll get a fresh new drive under your extended warranty,” he
said brightly. “With that – and I’d suggest you bump the memory to help it run
faster – you should be able to get another two or three years of good use out
of it.” The computer was born in 2008.
Age-pitted. Slow. Creaky foreign-born parts and
irretrievable data. Story of my life. No, really. I was born in 1960, and this
week I turn that age my mother taught me to dread. In case I was in danger of
forgetting, I got my AARP card in the mail not so very long ago.