Tuesday, April 8, 2008
I sort of feel like a sell-out.
Many years ago (in technology years), I purchased, under peer pressure from my hyper-organized sister-in-law, a Palm Pilot. I thought it would keep my calendar organized, would store my addresses for my contacts and would motivate me to clean my bathrooms on a schedule. My sister-in-law would sit coolly during our daughters' dance classes, tapping away at her little marvel, 'syncing, 'beaming' and 'graffitiing' with the best of them. I longed to join her hip sorority. I purchased Palm.
I apparently did not have the gift. The opening screen, the one where you had to tap on the little point to get the hang of 'tapping'---I failed 'Tapping 101'. It seemed that no matter where I tapped, no matter my tapping intentions, a different screen other that the one I intended would pop open and lead me through prompts on unknown origin. My errant Palm seemed to work perfectly in my sis-in-law's manicured and capable hands. In mine, it became little more than a large clock with a flip panel.
It was at this time that I went skulking back to my first love, Franklin Covey. He took me back with open arms, told me that he understood the temptation of a younger, hipper calendar, but that he always knew my need for tabbies and a zipper pouch would ultimately bring me back to him. I jumped back into planner relationship with renewed vigor and respect. I believed that my dissatisfied and roaming heart would never be lured again.
Franklin Covey and I were always fairly honest about the strengths and weaknesses of our relationship. I always love the smell of fresh planner pages every January. I'm a bit of a pushover for new tabbies that organize all sorts of obscure elements of my life. It always gives me a sense of power to flip open Franklin Covey and announce that, no, I can't be the person to bake eight dozen cupcakes for the bake sale because, here it is, right in Franklin Covey, that I am honoring one of my essentials during that time (essentials sometimes comprising bubble baths). Franklin has always known that after the birth of babies I would be a little distracted and then a little put out that the weight of the commitment to his binder would pinch tired nerves in my shoulders that heft the diaper bag. There has also been the issue of children occasionally using pages as artwork portfolios. But overall, the relationship has worked and has worked longterm. That is, until last week.
I shouldn't have started looking at the pictures--but sometimes they were hard to avoid. I would sign on the internet and there it would be, shiny and techy, blinking with promise. It seemed that I could combine variety of purse paraphenalia in this one sleek little package. Don't tell me you haven't thought about it yourself--the Palm Centro.
So, yes, I made the purchase, and it seems my tapping skills have improved. I have my calendar all set up, can make phone calls and surf the web, all from this little deck 'o cards size bit of red glittery goodness. I feel hip, like I can compete with the other, much younger soccer moms out there. I'm told that I can even use this little baby as an MP3 player and can play movies on it as well (although figuring out my iPod took such a mental toll that I may have to wait a bit before I jump back in those waters...).
But on occasion, I glance over at my bedside table and there he lays, forelorn. Franklin Covey. Apple green leather cover, extra large interior rings binding the history of the last few months. And sometimes it seems he might be mocking me a bit, knowing that my need for paper and pencil will return. And he'll be there, waiting.....