A tired old lady: try Twitter

I was born in a world after World War II, where mothers stayed home and wore aprons. Parents went out every morning and drove cars to work.

Fans, not air conditioners, made the summer heat bearable, having a phone meant being on a party line, and credit was if the owner of the local grocery store allowed him to have an account.

The meat was cut by a butcher whom he greeted by name before handing him his order carefully wrapped in crisp paper. Bananas were yellow, tomatoes were flavorful, and cilantro was unknown in most of the US.

I remember when our phone number stretched from five digits to ten, and the day we were all taken to the school auditorium to learn about the new kid on the block: the zip code.

During the summer, we would stay up late at night and watch Sputnik as it passed overhead.

I’ve lived through the Age of Aquarius, the deaths of the Kennedy brothers, Martin Luther King, and Elvis, and now I stand by and watch the dumbing down of America.

My hair was cut in a ducktail at the back, pulled back into a ponytail, and left to gently swing somewhere south of my waist.

My skirt hems have been mini, maxi, and slightly below the knee.

I printed with a pencil, learned writing with a fountain pen, and now I rely on a ballpoint pen.

I learned to type on a black Underwood with cloth ribbon, graduated to a desk-sized MTST, and then moved on to an MIS that proudly displayed ribbon flowing around two wheels.

I spoke DOS, I learned Windows and I used Google.

Now I know I’ve reached that stage where I’m older and more tired than most, but I’m not dead yet, like those of you who have read A Tired Old Woman: Losing Weight and Keeping It Off! can attest. In fact, I have worked hard to stay alive.

I can still learn. In fact, I make it a point to learn several new things every day, at least one of them technical, although writers, by definition, are verbal.

Nobody can say that I have not been flexible or that I have not been willing to accept the change if you have greeted me. However, for once in my life, I feel overwhelmed by the most recent technological advance: social networks.

I can handle Facebook, although I don’t see much use for it.

Twitter, on the other hand, has me stumped.

Thinking it would help me get started, a friend bought me what I’m sure is a perfectly written brochure designed to reveal the mysteries of Twitter to the uninitiated.

I admit I have technical issues, but with Twitter, no matter what I do, I just don’t get it. In part, I am convinced because the software did not like me.

Every morning I wake up determined to maintain a good attitude. So I have fun…

And I am entertained…

And I entertain myself a little more…

Postpone the inevitable.

Finally, I settle into my comfy chair with my laptop and prepare for battle – an oversized cup of coffee by my side brings Dutch courage, @Annie_Acorn.

Taking a deep breath, I log in and start scrolling through the verbal noise, looking for a chance or two to retweet. Just as I find one, the Tweet god updates the system and the post he was looking at disappears entirely, leaving me looking at a semi-nude photo that a young man chose to represent himself.

Undeterred, I search for a good photo of someone I can reply to in an effort to make a connection, and a smiley face greets me, over and over, one on top of the other, in a series of tweets.

The first quotes Voltaire and the second contains a familiar verse from the Bible. I perk up, and my eye continues down the page.

The third tweet refers to the hot and humid day and, living in the DC area, I prepare to commiserate.

Fortunately, my eye slips one more tweet before my slow reflexes can click the mouse. The girl I am going to communicate with is tweeting from prison, where she resides for having committed murder.

Refusing to admit defeat just yet, I traced another series of tweets up, following a frail-looking young woman as she travels from place to place through a major city. Coming from an older generation, I am concerned with how she exposes her location to a potential stalker.

Get to the “What’s going on?” box, I stop to think of something to tweet to a world that I’m sure isn’t exactly holding its breath, like a new message drops online from a long-time widow.

I found out that today would have been their 25th wedding anniversary, though they have no idea why they’re tweeting it.

With a click of my mouse, I prepare to reply, “My husband died 18 years ago. You never forget the ones you love.” I click the tweet button and let out a sigh.

Despite the weird flashing and meaningless verbal noise, I’ve reached through time and space and hopefully made someone I don’t even know feel a little better.

It was worth it?

For her? Maybe.

Way? Not so much.