Five Things That are Smarter Than Me

I consider myself a reasonably intelligent person. I can balance my checkbook, hard boil an egg, and navigate using real maps. 

I’m teachable and love to learn new things. I can re-light the pilot on the water heater and reset the smoke alarm when the ribs sit too long under the broiler. I do logic puzzles for fun.

So when technology designed to make my life easier complicates it instead, I go wild. 

As an exercise in humility, here are five things that are smarter than me.

Smart TVs

At one point we had four remotes for our television. They powered the TV, the satellite dish, the sound bar, and the gaming-console-that-doubled-as-a-DVD-player. You had to turn them on in a specific order or you got audio without picture, video without sound, or QVC instead of the DVR.

Since I rarely watch television, sorting out the remotes successfully came down to trial and error or sheer, dumb luck.

We recently ditched our satellite contract and signed up for a streaming service. “It will be a lot easier to use,” my husband assured me.

Baloney.

Now I have 238 apps on my TV screen, and I don’t know whether to sign in, log on, or just pray for a 10-year-old to wander through my living room and set me straight. 

Thankfully, my television is smart enough to respond when I say, “Alexa, turn on the TV.”

Automatic Car Door Locks

My car also has a remote, but with only four buttons. I don’t even need to know which one unlocks the vehicle. As long as the remote is near the car, I can press the button on the door handle and the door opens. 

Except when I want to put my groceries in the backseat. Because only the front door handles have unlock buttons. 

Touching the passenger door unlocks all the doors of the vehicle at once, but touching the driver’s door only unlocks itself. If I want to open any other door from the driver’s side, I have to press the button twice. 

Within 15 seconds. And then open the door I wanted in the first place. 

If my timing is off, I end up re-locking all of the doors instead of opening them. 

My fine-motor skills and hand-eye coordination are normally reliable. And yet, I always end up in a bizarre game of Beat the Clock, bouncing between doors trying to get the unlock-and-open sequence correct before the time is up. I have broken more than one nail yanking on a door that is securely locked.

So now I unlock the car the old-fashioned way, by opening the driver’s door and pressing the “unlock all doors button” from the inside. 

Sometimes an old dog doesn’t need a new trick. 

Touchless Faucets

In theory, touchless faucets are great idea both for preventing the spread of germs and conserving  water. In reality, they are the choreographers of a ballet of awkwardness.

My hand washing technique is simple. Wet hands, apply soap, scrub, rinse, and dry. 

In my experience, the first pass under the faucet activates the water immediately, but the rinse attempt fails every time. That’s because the sensor under the faucet stealthily relocates while I try to get a hyperactive soap dispenser to drop its suds into my palms. Placing my soapy hands in the exact same spot that successfully wet them now yields nothing. 

So I move my cupped hands up, around, and sideways, like a five-year-old playing the claw machine at the arcade. But this odd ballet does not trigger a single drop of rinse water. Until, of course, I separate my hands. Then a waterfall gushes from the faucet straight into the drain. 

When I whip my hands back under the stream to collect a few drops before the faucet shuts off again, I am inevitably scalded or frostbitten by the water temperature, which had been perfectly tepid before.

Every touchless faucet ballet ends the same: with me slinking off to the automatic dryers, hoping to blow the soapsuds off my hands, and leaving the dance floor to the next ballerina.

Blister Packaging

This modern marvel of efficient packaging is anything but user-friendly. No matter what pull tab, paper backing or “easy open” perforation is included, blister packs are fiendishly difficult to open. Despite weight training at the gym, no brute strength of mine will force that plastic to yield. My poor fingernails don’t fare any better than with the car door. 

Be it batteries, cold medicine, or toothbrushes, I’m not getting to the goods without a stout pair of kitchen shears.

Likewise, I’m also bullied by tamper-resistant packaging. 

I think nostalgically of the days when I would fold back the top of a milk carton, form a spout, and pour myself a glass. Now it’s unscrew the cap and yank on a delicate plastic ring, praying all the while that the ring doesn’t break and/or I don’t slosh half the contents of the carton onto the counter once the seal pops free.

Unfortunately, the old dog with an old trick doesn’t work here. Those cartons are now superglued and hermetically sealed. 

Spoilsports.

Trash Can Liners and Produce Bags

In my opinion, any three-dimensional object that is flattened to 2-D and dispensed on a roll is guaranteed to cause frustration.

At least trash bags skirmishes usually happen in the privacy of my home. But the war with produce bags always occurs in the public arena of the supermarket.

Wherever I encounter this foe, my plan of attack is the same: I rotate the roll repeatedly, looking and feeling for an edge, a rough spot, or a seam that indicates the end of the bag. Once a corner is loose enough to grasp, I pull the bag off the roll, hoping that the perforation separating the next bag is obvious. If not, I drape the extras back over the roll and skulk away, avoiding eye contact with the other shoppers. 

My average is three. My record is eight. To the people next in line at the dispenser, you’re welcome.

Opening the bag is the next battle. I heap blessings upon the manufacturer who puts an “Open Here” at one end. But even that hint does not guarantee success. I pick at the top of the bag, hoping to create a small gap to pull open. When that doesn’t work, I examine the side, looking for a crease to exploit between the front and back of the bag. Finally, I surreptitiously lick my fingers and rub the edges apart.

Unsanitary, but usually successful. Don’t judge.

Despite my complaints against inconvenient modern conveniences, I admire people who can navigate today’s technological amenities and make them work in their lives and mine. In fact, I’d like to end with a shoutout to a specialized group of those professionals.

Baristas

Along with reasonable intelligence, I have a fairly good memory. I have perfect recall on my social security number, my email password, and the code for the garage door. My brain stores an embarrassing amount of random information. 

But I am clueless at the coffee shop. 

I simply cannot remember the difference between a latte and a cappuccino, an Americano or a Cortado, or any other specialty coffee concoction. Add in the options: hot or iced, one flavor pump or two, steamed milk (whole, oat, almond, goat), and I’m a deer in the headlights when ordering at my favorite cafe.

But without fail, those patient espresso experts lead me through my choices (something hot, not too strong, a little sweet and creamy) and, in the words of Goldilocks, serve up something “just right.”

And regardless of how they spell my name on the cup, I am grateful for their expertise.

Your turn – what modern “conveniences” complicate your life? Share your thoughts in the comments!

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