“High, low, medium-slow, jolly-olly peppers”. That was a skipping song when I was a child a century ago. Whichever word you tripped on, you had to skip a prescribed number of steps with the rope swung viciously high, crampedly low, ordinarily, or breathlessly fast.
Today, “high” and “low” are most often prefixed to the particle “-tech”. Despite being a blogger, I generally prefer low-tech things, while E.g. enjoys high-tech gadgetry.
- I buy water colour paints; E.g. buys camera equipment.
- I buy a scratch pad; E.g. buys an i-pod Touch.
- I buy a pair of hiking boots; E.g. buys a programmable eliptical machine.
I’m not saying these are bad things, and in fact E.g. uses all of her toys more frequently than I use any of mine. I’m just not enthralled by such items. (Plus I make less money.) Having little interest in them, I find myself as adept at techy advances as I once was at skipping.
My job was to keep the boys out of the rope.
I have succumbed to one advance: a cell phone. It’s indispensable in my current job, which has me on call 38% of the time, unless I never want to leave the house. So, since the Cardis haven’t learned to use the toilet, a cell phone I have.
Imagine my dismay, then, when I couldn’t find my cell phone’s recharger. Of all the different plugs and wires in the house, only one plug and wire could save my dying phone, but it was nowhere to be found.
“It was on the desk in the guest room, I’m sure that’s the last place I used it!” I wailed to E.g.
“Is there any place else it might be?”
“I looked on the shelf in the living room; I checked the drawer in the kitchen table; I dug through my bookbag; it isn’t anywhere!”
“Lemme check the glove compartment.” E.g. excels at finding new options.
Alas, the recharger wasn’t there either. Tomorrow I would be doomed to live the interior life.
The next morning, E.g. rose as early as a New Year’s resolution to use the eliptical trainer. She awoke me with a shout: “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”
I slung myself out of bed to see what was up. E.g. was pointing to our piece of gym equipment. Purchased a week ago, it works fine, except for a bit of plastic housing — follow the left outer arm down, and hang a sharp right — that squeaks.
In a brilliant blend of high and low tech, E.g. had solved the problem of the squeak: she had wrapped a rag around the housing, and secured the rag with the nearest thing to hand.
You guessed it.
Removing my phone charger from the eliptical apparatus, I juiced up my cell phone. For her part, E.g. decided that the squeak wasn’t so annoying after all.