Little Machine

Some people think anger is a dirty word.

            Sometimes I enjoy my anger. It brings with it a unique pleasure. Hot emotion, I guess. And passion. Delusions of power. Still, anger has its uses; at least so long as it is used as constructive fuel and not justification for harm.

             This morning I woke up feeling my normal self. A bit tired, and surprised that I had slept in so late that the alarm woke me (I normally set the alarm for insurance purposes only, as I typically wake up as much as an hour before the alarm sounds). But still, I felt good: even- keeled, warmly anticipating my morning ritual. But when the time came down to set those rituals in motion, I abandoned them – believing that my time would be better spent this particular morning responding to a work proposal. And that was okay, no harm there. I could do my daily writing mid-day. No need to be so rigid with myself. My theme, after all, has been fluidity and flexibility. Why not start my daily practice of being more bendy in this simple challenge and trust that I will come back to the writing in just a few hours?

            So I responded to the bid. Afterwards, I quickly (and a bit impatiently) read my two daily lessons from the Strayed and Chodron books. Then I made Willa’s lunch, prepared her breakfast, got her to school on time. All still good. In motion and getting through the morning. But I sensed an irritation, felt a welt of intolerance bubbling to the surface. Not wanting to be derailed so early in the day, I decided that I would go to a yoga class – one that is typically attended by seniors, is slow moving and, ultimately, relaxing. It would be like pushing the reset button.

            So off to the gym I went. Only I was a half hour early for the class. What to do? I decided to warm up on the treadmill, get my heart rate up for a twenty minute window since it certainly wouldn’t be challenged during the yoga class. Balance, I thought: a bit of cardio, a bit of stretching. Aren’t I clever?

            I slipped in my ear buds, selected my favorite play list and stepped up on the treadmill. Only, I hadn’t been to this gym in a couple years and all their equipment was brand new. Now, before the belt would start running and you could commence a workout, you had to synch up your Bluetooth, select your device from the treadmill screen, register for an account and create a password. Until you had followed all those steps, the treadmill would remain obdurately, willfully frozen.

 “Are you kidding me?” I muttered under my breath. “I just want to use the damn treadmill, I’m not taking out a loan!” I yanked out my earbuds and looked around the room in exasperation. No one was paying the slightest attention. That was good, I guess. But part of me wanted to conspire with someone. Spot a comrade who might empathize with my frustration. But everyone was lost in their own workout worlds, listening to their own favorite playlists as they counted reps, or relished in their accelerated heart rates.

I started jabbing at the screen as it prompted me for information.  Name (okay, okay). Gender (really?). Date of birth (oh my god, I’m 45! Old enough to use the machine unsupervised!). E-mail account (are you fucking kidding me?!). I started jabbing at the screen more pointedly. I mistyped. I was prompted again for my email address. So I jabbed with even more pressure. I mistyped a second time. “JESUS CHRIST!” I yelled. “I just want to run on the treadmill! Am I going to need a password next to go to the fucking bathroom?!”

Just then, I felt a hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, mam. You don’t need to register. You can just log-in as a guest. See?” One of the personal trainers was pointing to the vacant treadmill next to me. And there on its screen, in red flashing buttons, were two words: guest and member. I had, very obediently, selected “member” as that’s what I was: a recently renewed member of the gym. “Oh,” I said stupidly. “Thank you.” The personal trainer smiled and moved on.

It was then that I noticed that the room had gone quiet. That none of the weight machines were clanking, that the elliptical machines had all ceased their rotating. Everyone was standing still, watching me.

“Oh, gosh,” I laughed. “I think this darn machine was going to ask me for my social security number next, or the name of my first born child.” Everyone looked at me blankly. Evidently there was no one to conspire with me here. “Sorry for the distraction,” I finally offered. Two seconds later, the various machines resumed their clanking and rotating and I, finally, got the treadmill belt moving. But, by then, I only had ten minutes before my yoga class. Oh well, I thought. Oh well.

Now that I have stepped away from the moment and am looking back at it, I am both puzzled by my anger but also find it entirely justified. Well, that’s not right. Let me rephrase. I understand why I got so angry at the treadmill, but I have no idea why I was already provoked before I had even stepped on the machine. Was it because I had skipped my morning routine, my coveted pre-dawn writing? Am I truly that inflexible that I become unhinged at the first provocation if I don’t start my morning ritualistically? Seems a bit on the spectrum to me (high probability there, as I have two siblings and a son who are on the spectrum), but I am willing to accept that - and even own it - as part of the reason behind my lack of self-control.

But I think it is only a part of the reason. I think the reason for my anger is more complex than that and I think it stems, in large part, to the utterly invasive nature of technology in our modern, app and device dependent lifestyles. Technology has become an invasive weed, choking the life out of me. Just this week I have registered and then re-registered for an account so that I could take an online aptitude test (part of the interviewing process); tried and failed to pay bills on line because my bank no longer communicates with Safari (now I have to download Chrome); tried and failed to respond to both the text messages and emails my son’s school was sending me about his overdue cafeteria bill because “reply messages cannot be received. If you wish to respond you must call the school receptionist;” tried and failed to open a work related document because my username was not recognized. I could go on and on. I have so many accounts, usernames and passwords that I am literally drowning. I have tried, for simplification, to use just one username and password for absolutely everything (big security risk there) but am often not allowed. The username is already claimed, the password does not pass muster. I must use 3 capital letters and 2 numbers and 4 symbols and 500 expletives. I must kill a goat and spill its blood on the altar. I must bend over backward and lick my own asshole. Or, better yet, maybe I had better lick yours.

Here I am, back in the land of profanity. Swearing and carrying on and frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. Does anyone else feel as I do? Is there anyone else in the world who has visions of picking up the treadmill and tossing it out the plate glass window? Of jumping up and down on the laptop when the prompt “In order to access your account, you must first disable your cookies” appears for the fourth and fifth time and you have already disabled your cookies three and four times? And what the hell are cookies, anyway? Is that important? Am I supposed to know that?

I swear to God - technology, as wonderful as it can be, will prove humanity’s undoing (assuming climate change or Trump doesn’t beat us to it; actually, climate change is directly tied to our insatiable need for more and more technology so, in a way, I guess the two are just different sides of the same coin; if you’re interested in learning more about that topic, I highly recommend “Falter” by Bill McKibben). So, since I don’t know how else to sooth my rage, let me try prayer. Yes, that’s right. Prayer.

  Dear lord. Hear my prayer. Can we please unplug and simplify? Can I just take the aptitude test with pen and paper? Can I simply use the treadmill without being synched to some app that will analyze my workout stats? How about the saleslady tells me about the special promotions without my having to download an app onto my phone? Honestly, I just came to Bed, Bath & Beyond to buy a mirror for my son’s bedroom. Can I please talk to anyone – children, adults, employees, parents, friends -  without the constant distraction of a device beeping or vibrating or notifying? Can we all just step out into the world and breath in the air? Notice the moss growing on the tree bark? See the birds as they fly north? Hear the wind and feel the breeze? Can you see that I am standing right in front of you? That the world is out there and not in your device? That our humanity and love and compassion are being lost in apps and programs and downloads. That we are innately beautiful as we have been created by nature but that we are rapidly becoming automated and robotic. That we are suffocating in passwords and user names and registrations and accounts. That our beautiful, perfect, fleeting lives are passing us by. Please hear my prayer so that my anger does not overwhelm. So that I can remain present, and open and warm and inviting. So that I can be here, on this Earth  - and not there, in all those horrid little machines. Amen.