A couple of Sundays ago, lying on my stomach in the mud under my mother’s house while a geyser streamed from her water main was not on my bingo card. Having some experience in outdoor plumbing from my close relationship with irrigation systems, I figured I might save the day and repair the broken line. Alas, the busted pipe was galvanized steel, so we had to call a plumber.
As I left my mother’s house, I wished her well, as dry pipes were sure to set her back to the Dark Ages. Being the good son I am, I offered my home to her for teeth brushing, showering or whatever else might come to mind in her absence of H2O. As much as I felt bad for her, I counted my blessings that it wasn’t me. A life with no modern plumbing seemed such a medieval notion.
The next morning, I was brushing my teeth when I thought of my mother. How was she enduring such an existence? (Insert sarcasm.) I swished my mouth with a cup of water and then washed my hands. I couldn’t wait to brew that pot of coffee, maybe water my wife’s ferns before I filled the dog’s bowl. I drank a large glass of water, used the restroom, turned on the dishwasher and left for work. My morning went as smooth as running water.
Then, in an instant, fate was a cruel mistress. As I reached for my keys on the table where they sat next to our Wi-Fi modem, I saw the red blinking light. I could feel myself plummeting into the 1800s with every flash. My truck began to resemble a horse and buggy and my lamps appeared as flickering candles. It was official.
Our Wi-Fi was out. What was I to do? I left for work, and my mind began to wander. How was I to adjust my thermostat from afar? How could Shannon know the arrival of Amazon packages with no camera to alert her? And what about the afternoon, that time of day when our family descends upon our home and rides the waves of Wi-Fi well into the evening? What were we to do? Oh, the humanity.
Were we to go to my mother’s and return to a life of bandwidth? Perhaps, but what if we became thirsty or needed to use the toilet? The end times were surely near. Board games were always an option, but in a competitive family such as ours, we were destined to be torn apart in a fury of paper money exchanges. Reading remained an option, but for me, book time is sacred. It’s reserved for weekend mornings with coffee, not a regular Tuesday night while serving as a means to an end for an evening with no internet.
Midway through the week, water was restored at my mother’s home and a technician replaced our modem. Legend has it that during those insufferable days our household burned through hot spot data on our phones faster than you can say AT&T. Who knew you could stream your network provider through your phone’s hot spot? Technology is amazing.
I didn’t have some deep awakening in our absence of internet. I know how much we rely on Wi-Fi, and that’s OK. There’s nothing wrong with surfing the web, streaming your favorite show or remotely checking your thermostat 12 times a day. People enjoy those things and shouldn’t be made to feel bad about it.
The two-headed monster my mother and I faced begged the question: Would you rather be without Wi-Fi or water? Personally, I’d rather be without water. It’s not that uncommon to shower at a friend’s or relative’s house if need be, but it seems out of place to show up on a Tuesday and say, “I’m only here for your Wi-Fi.”
Don’t get me wrong, we live life to the fullest in our home. We ride bikes, exercise, garden, cook, play games and do all the things that don’t require a digital signal. But we also enjoy watching shows with our son and catching the next episode of whatever is in our streaming queue. Never mind the fact that the following seasons won’t come out until 15 years later — we enjoy them regardless.
My wife, Shannon, asked me as I was writing this what the lesson of my story would be. I told her I didn’t really have one. But if I must, it would be this: Sometimes life is boring, sometimes it’s exciting, other times it’s just average and occasionally it catches us off guard. But it’s never as bad as we think, and it can always get a little better with a nice shower and some Netflix.
Clay Bowen is a Columbus native who cooked professionally as a chef in fine dining for 12 years and appeared on the third season of Top Chef. He is also a licensed landscape horticulturist. Email him at [email protected].
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