In the blink of a "Hey, the channel won't change," moment, my husband and I were rocketed into the 21st century. Our 700 pound television, at last, refused to recognize our remote in any way, shape or form. The days of wondering if something's wrong with my ears or if it's the dishwasher's whine drowning out John Stewart's nightly fodder - are over. No chance of reconciliation.
Husband Man and I exchanged glances laden with sparkle. This was our chance. We most certainly now "must" bring ourselves up to date with a brand new television... a cool one... one that doesn't scream, "What was so wrong with the early 90s? I'm big and I own your living room!" No, we were ready for HDMi cables and hi-tech calibration. We set out to bag ourselves a big one!
After a full weekend of research and the full attention of several very eager salespeople, we finally made the purchase. I was feeling almost kind of hip for a moment - which doesn't happen very readily any more. I cleared my schedule for the designated day, unhooked the behemoth, outdated box of wonder, and waited for the big delivery. At last, I heard the familiar rumble of a delivery truck backing up my driveway.
This was it! As I floated across the foyer to answer the door, "We're Movin' On Up..." from the 1970s sitcom, "The Jeffersons," was singing in full chorus in my head. At once, two young men were at my door. They politely asked me a few questions, removed their shoes, then set to work on assembling and hooking up the wafer thin, shockingly clear, appliance of the future.
We exchanged a few pleasantries (as much as is possible when talking to men who are wearing what appear to be towing ropes and have a pig-pen aura of Marlboro reds around them). Then it was time to sign the delivery papers and go over last minute instructions. I was hanging in there with my new found TV technology vernacular... again, almost feeling a bit hip.
As I was initialing this blank and that one, I realized how quiet it was, while the three of us stood in my self-proclaimed office off the living room. All at once, in one fell swoop, all hopes of hipness washed out the door. The music I had been listening to via my computer was now all that could be heard in the quiet room. It seems that Pandora chose to play Frank Sinatra crooning "I Get a Kick Out of You" followed up by a little Henry Mancini's "Moon River" in that quiet moment. I tried to remain cool - because, hey, that's good stuff, right? Then I saw it as I glanced over my glasses: Two young men exchanging raised eyebrows and smirks - as if to say, "Nice music, lady - how old are you anyway?"
Being hip is totally overrated... right?