This post tonight is the first one written on my spanking new MacBookPro. He doesn’t have a name yet, but I am open to suggestions.
I am happy to own this amazing computer with the latest gadgets and sheen, but glancing over at my old black smudged MacBook, the one that looks as if lotioned hands massaged its keyboard in just the right places, the one I have hauled from the Bay Area to Munich and from New York to Halifax…well, I feel guilty. After all, he wasn’t all the way broken. Just on his way out.
His screen flickered often, causing me to jump up and back up everything on more DVD’s. And because I am paranoid about losing my data, I make two copies of each disk, sending one down to my basement and one to my office, lest fire should consume one location.
I called my old computer Dexter after a character in one of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short stories. The name, scholarly and nerdy, fit the machine. So what if a dab of sour cream or a drip of coffee touched Dexter’s skin. So what! I’d say to Judge Blah who owns and works on his sanitized PC and mini-laptop and who wouldn’t consider naming anything that wasn’t delivered by an obstetrician. His computer he calls My Computer.
Alas, I am one of those people who develop an irrational attachment to my inanimate objects. When it comes time to say good-bye (visa vi the dump, Good Will Industries, a personal sale, a trade-in, or just a retirement), I over think the situation. I know that stuffed giraffe doesn’t have real feelings. My old 1965 baby yellow MGB was just a hunk of junk, and that house, the one where I diapered those little soft bodies, is just a framer’s work in an area where the schools aren’t so good.
Hello new one. Maybe I will call you Gene. Or Miles. Or Maxwell.
Good-bye my old friend.