People like to say technology is here to make our lives easier.
In my experience, technology is here to quietly test how close I am to becoming the sort of man who shouts at a toaster.
The other morning, I sat down with a very simple goal: send an email. Not build an app. Not automate a funnel. Just… send an email to a client like a normal, functioning adult who pays taxes and occasionally remembers to floss.
I opened my laptop, took a sip of coffee, and thought, “This will take five minutes.”
That was my first mistake.
The laptop, sensing confidence, decided to update.
“Installing update 1 of 47,” it said, in the same calm tone a pilot might use before announcing we’ve lost both engines.
“Now?” I asked, out loud, like we were in a relationship.
It did not respond. Just a little spinning wheel. Smug. Circular. Judging me.
Fine. I waited. Made another coffee. Came back.
“Restart required.”
Of course it is.
Round two.
Laptop finally ready. I open my email platform. Password doesn’t work.
Now, I know this password. I created it. It’s one of my “good” passwords. Uppercase, lowercase, number, symbol, probably a childhood trauma hidden in there somewhere.
“Incorrect password.”
“Don’t do this,” I whispered.
I try again. Slower this time. Like the keyboard might be nervous.
“Incorrect password.”
So I do what every mature adult does in this situation: I click “Forgot Password” and begin the sacred ritual.
“Enter new password.”
Fine.
“New password cannot be the same as your old password.”
I’m sorry—what?
How do you know it’s the same if you just told me the old one was wrong? Are we just… lying now?
Eventually, I’m back in.
I start writing the email. It’s good, too. Clear, concise, slightly charming. The kind of email that says, “This man has his life together,” which is a bold claim given I’ve just spent 14 minutes arguing with a login screen.
Halfway through, the screen freezes.
Just… stops.
Cursor blinking like it’s mocking me. “Oh, were you using this?”
“Don’t you dare,” I say.
It dares.
The page refreshes.
Draft gone.
Not saved. Not recovered. Just vanished into whatever digital afterlife is reserved for mildly competent work.
I sit there, staring at the screen, hands hovering over the keyboard, trying to decide if this is the moment I finally snap and take up a simpler life. Something low-tech. Like woodworking. Or shouting into the sea.
Later that day, I’m explaining this to my partner.
“It just disappeared,” I say. “The whole thing. Like it never existed.”
She nods, in the way people do when they’re not entirely convinced you’re telling the full story.
“Did you save it?”
“…That feels irrelevant.”
She gives me a look. You know the one. The “I love you, but you are absolutely the problem here” look.
And the annoying thing is—she’s not wrong.
Because here’s what I realised, somewhere between the third password reset and my brief consideration of becoming a shepherd:
It’s not really about the tech.
It’s about the expectation.
I expect things to be smooth. Instant. Effortless. I expect to click a button and have the world quietly cooperate.
And when it doesn’t, I take it personally. Like my email platform woke up and chose violence.
But tech isn’t magic. It’s just a pile of systems, built by humans, held together with updates, patches, and the occasional bit of hope.
And me? I’m also a slightly unreliable system, held together with coffee and good intentions.
So when we clash… it’s less “man vs machine” and more “two flawed things having a bit of a moment.”
These days, I try to approach it differently.
When something breaks, or freezes, or asks me to create a password that includes a hieroglyph and the name of my first pet…
I pause.
I take a breath.
And then I mutter, “Alright then… let’s see which one of us gives up first.”
It’s usually me.
I’m the one, reopening the laptop, retyping the email, pretending I didn’t just consider throwing a perfectly good device out the window.
But occasionally—just occasionally—I get the email sent.
And when I do, I sit back, take a sip of now-cold coffee, and feel like I’ve just outwitted a very polite, very passive-aggressive robot.
Which, in my world, counts as a win.
Even if the toaster’s still watching.
No wonder we get that paranoid feeling at times
Brian
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