I could talk about how I used a typewriter yesterday. Yes, you read correctly. I used a typewriter. Before yesterday, I couldn't even remember the last time I saw a typewriter, much less when I used one.
For all of you not near the half-century mark, let me point out that offices used to be filled with little women typing away at these machines, translating the handwritten words of men into neat, easy-to-read lines of text, properly punctuated and capitalized, beginning with dears and ending with regards(es) or sincerelys.
Gals of a certain age will remember being forced by their mothers to take typing in 7th grade so as to have a usable skill. Gals of that certain age will remember how much they hated having to take typing but appreciated not being forced at the same time to take home economics classes. Gals of a certain age will further remember that the skill proved to be a formidable and enviable one, helping to pay for
Do you know why I had to use a typewriter? Because my highly driven, overachieving, business-owning friend was submitting a proposal to a government agency. And that government agency expected proposers to complete various forms on a typewriter. How archaic, yes? I mean, the ease with which forms can be created for completing via computer is clearly not a government secret.
And, yet, there I was type-type-typing away, and remembering the days of old.
Now, excuse me, I've got to get back to playing Pong. Once I take my Metamucil, of course.