I have been having dreadful dreams of being neck-deep in bowls of spaghetti pasta, or having to wrestle with herds of octopi.
All around me are rows of bars with only one lit up and signs that flash and shriek, “You are at 15 percent power! Turn off your device immediately or suffer the dire consequences!”
In the immortal words of Rosanne Rosannadanna: “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another!” I just get my phone charged and my eBook reader goes down. I just get that back up to speed and discover my laptop is winded.
My robo-vacuum sadly blinked its yellow “I’m exhausted. Call me in the morning” light at me when I needed it to suck up pine needles. I even bought a special case with a backup battery for my phone. It lasted about six months but no longer connects properly to its little plug in either the house or in the car. It is a very good thing, I think, that I decided against the plug-in Prius.
At the risk of being trite, weren’t these devices supposed to simplify life? Of course they do in some ways, but there wasn’t supposed to be this constant demand for attention from them. They practically whine. If you read between the lines, the warnings really say “Your device is at 18 percent power, you negligent slob and it will shut down and leave you in the dark with no one to talk to and nothing to read if you don’t recharge it right NOW!” If I wanted that kind of nagging, I’d have had more children.
I want my futuristic robotic devices to wander off and charge themselves at precisely the time I don’t need them. Is a reprieve from constant recharging and cords in every direction really too much to ask of those adorable, bright MIT and Carnegie Mellon graduates? I say no and I promise I will be first in line to buy your better solution.
So hop to it, clever children. It falls to you to take over care, feeding and improvement on all the swell devices your preceding generation got us all hooked on.
See if you can’t figure out how to make them all run on tooth plaque or maybe plug into your belly button. I’ll be waiting.
Jean Gillette is a freelance writer still waiting for her Jetson-style flying car. Contact her at firstname.lastname@example.org.