I don’t know how it happened, but my fingers have turned against me. I tell them to punch the little key to produce a “g” on the paper, but for some reason the word turns out to be “travelin4” and I don’t even know it until I proofread.
In the old days, I could feel when I typed something wrong, and correct it on the spot. In the old old days, of course, that meant running the page back up on the platen of the typewriter and erasing the error with a funny little contraption that had an eraser wheel on one end and a brush on the other. I think you can find them in museums now. After that came little bottles of white paint to cover up the wayward letters, and then white tape in a dispenser. None of these solutions looked particularly attractive on the finished page. I started over . . . often.
You can imagine my delight when I got an electric typewrite that would allow me to backspace and lift the errant ink from the paper, leaving an invisible (almost) spot to type in what should have been there in the first place. Absolutely amazing.
In time, I got to be a passable typist, never competition speed but at least well past the two-finger hunt-and-peck. It’s typical of my life that this period was when they came up with the computer, a universal corrector when I finally didn’t need it much anymore.
But age plays tricks on us all. The brain still works just fine (hubby might argue that point a little) but the fingers have taken to doing strange things when I’m not paying attention. They drop knives and forks with regularity, and absolutely refuse to turn doorknobs when the weather is damp. Computer keys are a virtual playground for their evil intent.
I can still proofread, so not too many errors find their way to the physical or virtual printed page. But if you look closely, once in a while you’ll spot one I’ve missed.
Oh, no! It seems that my eyes are aging, too.
I’ll see you again, after the commercial.