Adaptation

Do I like that I can type a string of stream-of-consciousness thoughts into my computer’s internet browser, and, after a few moments of gazing at dancing stars, a plain-language paragraph I tend to think of as a bit of straightforward, almost grandmotherly advice will appear as if from the heavens? Yes, I have to admit, I do.

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Do I have full faith in the contents of this abstract oracle or discern where it came from within the wispy web? No, I do not.

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I use it as a starting point in a quest for further explanation, as I would whenever the wisdom of our elders includes dubious or dated advice.

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Which is how I found myself staring distractedly at my phone, slowly realizing the vast vacuum of time and space becoming clearer with the appearance of some silly little character.

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The zaftig creature – perhaps a second cousin once removed from the Pillsbury Dough Boy –  is donning sweatbands around his head and wrists. I reflect not on what or why he has appeared,  and focus instead on the possibility that his this creature’s sport accessories would be able to cut off his circulation if he were flesh and bone rather than ink and animation.

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He is visiting my phone, I can tell, because whoever sent him thinks I might happily pay a small monthly fee to take his virtual fitness class whenever my schedule permits.

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Another rabbit hole I needn’t have fallen into. I click the phone so its screen goes black and try to focus on something that actually needs my undivided attention, which I manage to do for the length of time network television once devoted to commercials.

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Why am I even considering this algorithmic new friend? Not when the ghost of a Wii fitness past still haunts me.  

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Of course, now that I’m looking for him, nothing appears. I can’t remember which app brought him to me. I can’t retrace my steps.

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It certainly feels like the phone and all its inputs are gaslighting me.

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A part of me hopes this bloom of AI is just an upgrade of the search engines we have come to rely on; a streamlining of ways to search for answers that fit better into the puzzle-shaped holes in our minds.

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A part of me believes that it’s just plugging up those holes with distractions that lessen our anxiety at best but fill us with harmful falsehoods … and even if it’s not catastrophic, it will always be just a little bit worse.

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Aside from misinformation and deepfakes, AI will also deliver snowballing biases. It will rob us of our ideas and the work products we used to call art. There will be breaches and break-ins, and the taking (not simply the assuming) of human identities. It will not only take more jobs, but it will consume our creativity and leave us toiling over the chores.

Then there’s the likelihood that these data centers’ gargantuan hunger for water and energy  not only bankrupts us financially, but also costs us the Earth.

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Maybe the people behind the machine think they can inherit what’s left. Or maybe they hope only some of us will be able to adapt to our new Artificially Intelligent Overlords.

All Day Breakfast

It’s the weekend, and my husband HAS to ask his inevitable question.

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“What do you want for breakfast?”

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It doesn’t matter that three out of four members of my household will undoubtedly tell him, ‘I’ll pass.’

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It also doesn’t matter that two of the three responders are answering via text — since they happen to be waking up in dorms a couple hundred miles south (and west) of their bedrooms down the hall.

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Our tone won’t exactly be pleasant, but it’s hard to decipher inside the blue bubbles. One of the kids will likely include a demand that he produce a simple calculation: “Take the number of times you’ve asked this question over the years and subtract the number of times my answer has been a big, fat goose egg - zilch.”

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The other will send nothing but a smiley face, which is secreting tears.

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He takes it in stride. If they were here, he’ll make enough bacon for everyone to snitch. Since no matter how much they hate breakfast, there’s always room for bacon.

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“You don’t know what you’re missing,” he’ll whistle and hum, juggling the ingredients he’s pulled from the refrigerator and the pots and pans he’s pulled from the cabinets.

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No matter who you consult, this could be a problem … maybe even THE problem with the grizzly bears he encounters on these otherwise glorious mornings.

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Our son has a favorite bodega order: Sausage, egg, and cheese on a bagel. Side of energy drink … SEVENTEEN BUCKS.

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“That is one FANCY bodega,” his sister responds in all caps. “My favorite bagel joint charges sixty cents less. I’ll swap the energy drink for a tea and the bill comes to $16.25.”

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I love that the two of them will argue for a scrolling distance of about four phone screen lengths before they ascertain which of them is a better tipper; but I am flabbergasted that neither of my kids has ordered a breakfast sandwich that costs fewer than twenty dollars.

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The lowly breakfast sandwich … the staple of college students everywhere … has become a dinner option.

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I’m not sure why that surprised me. Back in my college days, when groceries cost significantly less, I used to freeze my yogurt cups, then skim off inches at a time so that they would last longer.

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But I could get an omelette, hash browns, and a side of rye toast for $3.50 any time of day, but especially at 4 a.m. after the bars closed, which turned out to be a popular time to eat breakfast.

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Neither of my kids will divulge any late-night dining practices that would tend to make their parents nervous. But, then again, times have changed as my son is happy to share.

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“I was today years old when I learned there’s an economic indicator index for everything that goes into the cost of a breakfast sandwich and coffee … The price of eggs is down, but the cost of coffee is through the roof … and with energy and healthcare rising, I will probably never be getting change for that sawbuck. But then again, it’s not like we’re even going to have coins in the future, since they cost more to make than they are worth in spending power.”

I do not want to speak to your manager ​

I fully intended to stay calm. This was the kind of low-stakes errand that didn’t have to set my emotions aflame.  

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I was committed to returning a set of Amazon purchases that did not pass muster … and despite having a price point so low that I would normally absorb the cost as not worth the effort and gasoline required to drive to the Smiley-Arrow returns collection site.

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Of course … I was in Staples during the penultimate week of back-to-school shopping, and it was dawning on me that management had only supplied one associate to operate the till.

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And the register in question was not the one handling regular shipping, where a clerk who had just disengaged with a sale informed me it was not the register dedicated to Amazon returns, which the till employee had to toggle between, and where I needed to stand and wait.

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Potentially until Hell froze over.

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“Smile,” I told myself. “Breathe. It’s been a pleasant day. You have time to spare. Look at all the nice people who are ahead of you, and who look as if they are also committed to staying calm no matter what happens.”

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But then the clerk from the regular shipping department – which I could see from my vantage point beside the growing line of people pushing carts piled high with fresh school supplies, ensuring that the clerk would not be toggling our way any time soon – meandered over, stopped just feet away from our empty lane, and meandered back.

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I didn’t snap … exactly.

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But I did suck in my breath, say a silent “Hell No,” and left my place in line to march the 40 yards toward the shipping department where I asked the startled clerk if anyone would be available to accept the Amazon return items in the foreseeable future.

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“Someone will be coming. But they’re not ready yet.”

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I’m not sure what happened next … My head felt swimmy. I saw sparks, or strange specks of light, as the room closed in on me.

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“Can’t you work that register?” I managed to say, hopefully without malice seeping into my voice.

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Truly … I have no idea what employment protocols are in place in the big box office supply stores of this great nation. Maybe there is limited cross-training. Maybe the clerk was off the clock and at lunch. Maybe there is a dedicated hand-held computer for this purpose that only THAT PERSON has access to? There are infinite possibilities that I should have considered.

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I just didn’t want to leave if the line wasn’t going to last until closing time.

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The clerk said nothing, but began to walk toward the Amazon line, now several people deep.

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I followed, resolved to accept my new location at the back of the line.

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When we got there, the employee we had been waiting for met us at the till, so the clerk I had badgered turned around and silently retreated, but not before meeting my tight smile with another tight smile.

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The line would go quickly … so long as we all had our return codes ready.

The shape of a mile

 “Everybody wondered where you were,” my husband mused as he moved around the kitchen. Taking laps from the stove to the refrigerator and then to the sink. It was nearly the lunch hour on a recent Saturday, and I had just walked in the door.

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It took me a moment to register what he was getting at. I hadn’t eaten yet, and the sizzle of bacon was a welcome but distracting sound. As my stomach growled and saliva rushed to my mouth, I remembered that our normal weekend routine had been altered by divergent plans.

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“Really?” I replied quizzically, scanning my memory for the identities of whom “everyone” might encompass.  My husband had joined the walking contingent of the Saturday morning running club, so I just started naming names.

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“I don’t know. Everybody. …

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“I mentioned you were doing the Hudson Mile, but they just wondered why. They all said, ‘she’ll blow out her quads if she does that race’.”

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I cocked my head to one side, as if the sudden shift in its pitch would send some blocked memory squishing forth or at least expel the quintessential sing-song refrain (‘You’ll shoot your eye out, you’ll shoot your eye out’) from A Christmas Story.

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After all, I had assumed my friends knew what I had been training for all summer long, just as I knew the racing goals they, in turn, were hoping to meet this fall.

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That’s when I started to spiral.

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Maybe, I thought, THEY THOUGHT I had been nursing a quad injury? Or maybe they thought I was a delicate flower that shouldn’t push myself.

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It certainly wasn’t a concern that I couldn’t finish one mile… anyone can finish a mile.

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I’m not gonna lie: I worried my stomach into knots the night before … thinking about all the athletes – people wearing brightly colored singlets and teeny-tiny, short shorts – who had signed up. There were more of them than the mere mortal mother-truckers like me.

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On more than one occasion, as I tossed and turned throughout the night, I even contemplated not starting the race to avoid the probability of finishing last.

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When morning came, I pulled myself together for the sake of decorum and the seat in a carpool I’d also accepted as part of this pregame ritual.

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I was relieved to see the tiny tent where the race volunteers were busy checking in a slow trickle of participants, many of whom were already warming up by slowly circling the block, then gaining their strides uphill toward the starting line.

Spectators gathered on the sidewalks where they had a full view of the historic street, now miraculously devoid of parked cars, which encapsulated the entirety of the race’s distance.

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At the word “Go!” three waves of runners would take off. I would be among them, fighting and losing nearly every urge to go out too fast. The gradual elevation drop made my unadvisable speed feel almost effortless.  To the point where, midway through, where the course leveled off, and I felt the need to slow down, it didn’t feel catastrophic. In fact, when I had enough kick left at the finish in a true sprint, I felt confident I had met my unmentioned goal – to attain a personal record.

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I didn’t finish near the front. And I didn’t finish at the end. But I finished feeling strong. The endorphins lasted the whole day … and almost into the next when I woke up and felt the unmistakable tightness of my quads.

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“That’s what they were all saying: the downhills do a number on your quads.”