We recently bought a new car. While I could write about the inherently terrible nature of making such a purchase, I won’t. Unless you’re a car person – and I definitely am not – you know that feeling of being in way over your head as you try and choose between car models you really can’t evaluate.

As a side note, the only entertaining car shopping experience I had was when I was getting my first car with my father. We took along the Pastor of our church, who doubled as a mechanic. He proceeded to crawl under the car in the midst of the lot, much to the amazement of the salesman and me. When he emerged, he pronounced the car fit and we moved on to the price negotiations.
Now that we had picked out the car and it had been blessed, so to speak, I was very excited. Then my father and the salesman started haggling over the price. I wasn’t paying, so I just wanted it to get over with. They reached an impasse. My father turned to me and said, “Let’s go Tom”. He walked out the door, with me following behind muttering, “but, but….” Sure enough the salesman chased us down as we got into our car and, after the inevitable visit with the Manager, we got our price. The irony of it all, and maybe the lesson too, is that the car we bought was a 1972 Ford Pinto hatchback, designated by Motortrend Magazine as “one of the most infamous cars in automotive history” because of its exploding gas tank.

Anyway, back to our new car. Inevitably, once we agreed to the purchase the salesman sat us down in the car and in a five-minute sprint went through its features. We were shown what each button and lever did, all the various permutations to cruise control, display, audio etc., etc. By the end my neck was sore from mindlessly nodding along.
A couple of months later we had the bi-annual time change. I figured the display on the car would do the same, but it didn’t. My first reaction was anger. How dare the car not perform any function automatically!!! Did this mean that I would have to figure out how to do this myself? Could we have sunk that low?
I dutifully pulled the ridiculous 700-page car manual out of the glove compartment. After searching through the index to discover where they hid the clock instructions (why list it as “Setting the Clock”, instead of just “Clock”?), I perused in amazement as they walked me through two pages of options, including an automatic update. I wondered why they didn’t just set that as the norm and save me the trouble of hefting this monstrosity.
As I flipped through the manual, I realized that I did not know half of what the car could do. Why were there 14 pages on the “Keyless Access System”? Could I really remember the meaning of the 39 indicator lights? What is a “Hill Descent Control System”? Did I actually have a “Traffic Sign Recognition System”, and, if so, why? Am I comfortable with a “Driver Attention Monitor”?
With a sigh, I put the manual back into the glove compartment, where I hoped it would remain for the next 5 years. I know I could have studied the tome and learned all the nuances of this major purchase, but I also knew I did not have the patience or interest to do so. Let’s face it, all I really want is for the car to start when I push the button and for my phone to hook in so I don’t get lost and can listen to whatever Spotify station strikes my fancy. Most everything else is superfluous.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized this was my life. I interact daily with a myriad of contraptions that I know little about. Right now, I am typing on a powerful computer that I have no doubt can do an amazing array of calculations, permutations, solicitations and alterations. Yet, all I ask it to do is display my e-mail, get me on the internet and run the Word program.
Even in Word my knowledge is minuscule. There are nine tabs at the top of the sheet, not counting “Help” (which rarely is). Under each of these tabs there are sub-headings too numerous to count. While I have been using Word for the last 40 years I doubt if I have used more than 10 of these.

As I looked around, I realized that every electronic device I own, from my phone to my “Smart” TV to my coffee maker, has a plethora of buttons that I have never used and never intend to. Manufacturers pile on features meant to impress, but the vast majority are mere window dressing. Do they really expect us to take the time to learn how to use the “Dehydrate” feature on the Air Fryer, or are they, as I suspect, just giggling at another useless add-on that will drive up the price?
I should not be surprised at any of this. Even the simplest of these electronic devices is so complex it is beyond comprehension. I have no idea how any of them work. If I was honest with myself when one turns on I would fall to my knees thankful for the miracle that just occurred.
On the one hand this is just an old man’s rant. “Back when I was a boy, we had appliances with only one button, on/off.” However, the truth of the matter is that I didn’t know how anything worked back then either. Modern marvels just highlight and mock my ignorance.
Now and then I get it into my head to actually learn what the contraptions I own do. Needless to say, that urge quickly passes. I must admit to myself that I am content to use 1/3 of the functions of most everything I own. As for the rest, I just have to hope I don’t hit some button accidentally and descend into worlds unknown. The last thing I want is to pull out another manual!!!