Behind My Door: My impending death

By Sandra Bernhardt

Some people grow old and die a natural, peaceful death. Others are plagued by disease or, sadly, devise their own plan for leaving this earth.

I, on the other hand, already know how life will end for me: After years of exasperation and frustration, I will suffer a “tech death,” an event accompanied by cursing and crashing.

With my feeble body, I will muster what remaining mental and physical fortitude I still possess and use it to hurl my Hewlett Packard against the nearest wall, shout “HALLELUJAH!,” draw a final gasp, then fall back in blessed, eternal sleep.

That is my last, best hope.

I don’t want to come off as negative, but if my faithful readers really want to know why I seem to focus on my impending death, here’s the truth: I am confident that if it weren’t for the evil computer — a boon and a boondoggle — I firmly believe it will be the computer that, in the end, will brutally strangle me. And, by the frequent cursing all around me, I know I won’t die alone. We are legion.

At the onset of the “computer age,” many women were terrified of it; however, it’s no secret that armies of technologically-impaired males refused to call a “geek” for help. Nor ask for directions on how to turn it on. They would pretend they knew what they were doing, leaving their bewildered wives changing TV channels with a cordless phone and ordering pizza with a string and two soup cans. (Well, I might have gone over the top right there.)

One day, I begged Mark, my middle son, to help me learn to use the computer. He looked frightened. It seemed to me that since I’m a fast typist, the computer should be a piece of cake. After all, I was motivated.

For seven minutes.  

Before long, the neighbors began snickering when they saw me.  Apparently, they’d never seen a grown woman with a pacifier before.

(A neighbor once told me about the time she overheard her father say to a friend, “Well, it won’t be long before the Millennium Bug gets here.”  When she heard that, she hid in her closet for two weeks, clutching a can of Raid.)

But I digress. Finally, Mark brought me a Margarita, mustered his courage and began tutoring. “Mom, he said gently, here’s what you need to do: Click on this, then that, then the key over there. Next, hit enter and your password. Voila! You can start typing! It’s just a few simple steps.” 

While Mark had a brandy and sour, I envisioned myself writing a speech as competently as any nerd.

Silly me. After two hours of denied entry, I fell down the “simple steps,” fracturing my pride. Defeated, I reverted back to chicken scratching. Then, in an effort to appear computer literate, I’d take it with me. When I went to Beauty and the Bean — my favorite coffee spot — I’d leave the cover of my net book up. If someone approached my table, I’d throw my body over the screen and say, “Sorry, this is confidential.”

So, where is Dr. Oz when I need him? Forget hemorrhoids and bunions. A pharmacy can take care of those, but I have a serious disease here, and no one cares. It’s attacking my sense of humor, my perfect blood pressure, heart rate and vocabulary — I’m talking like a sailor.

Laugh if you must, but my physician just informed me that I am now two inches shorter. Can a computer actually do that? (I don’t know when I’ve had a better time, but I think it was my last period.)

So, until the day of reckoning when the Grim Reaper knocks, a net book sadistically tucked into his armpit, I am left with just two options:

#1 Join the ranks of those in AA and admit I am powerless;

#2 Sign up for TOPS where I’ll be reminded that eating to excess “dulls the senses.”  (Please hand me a box of … Twinkies.) 

I don’t know what the rest of the afflicted legion would do, but as a course of treatment, I’d recommend the latter.

For more than 30 years, Fort Atkinson’s Sandra (Sandi) Bernhardt has enjoyed humorous public speaking in Wisconsin and beyond. During her career, she served as a human resources director, as well as a customer service consultant for a healthcare company. Active in the community, Sandy is a graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Whitewater and the mother of three grown sons.