Sunny Sunday

I am being gently shoved---against resistance---into this decade.  
My visiting friend had brought me her retired smart phone, casualty of an upgrade, and had gently and generously been urging me to embrace the new technology that I'd been resisting.
I left it untouched in a Safe Place.
Then my dear old flip phone disappeared completely.  Gremlins?
(It has subsequently been a quiet, peaceful and undistracted month.)
This weekend, my visiting friend's tech-savvy son set the smart-ish phone up with a server.  It is supposed to start functioning tomorrow.  (Perhaps it needs to limber up first, like me?)  
My contacts and photos miraculously relocated to their new home.
But how long will it take me to function with it?
I am being dragged kicking and screaming into this century.

On the other hand, young folks today cannot write cursive; they can barely print.
Many only read on a screen; and doing one thing at a time seems to them hopelessly old-fashioned.
Here am I, deep in Old Fogeydom, kvetching about Young Folks Today---something I never imagined doing.  It can't be very far off that I may be caught saying something like "When I was your age..."
(Fill in the blank:  I waitressed at the Concord; I custom-made cartoons for people;  my hair was down to my waist; et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.)

Is this what happens only seven weeks after turning 70?
Yikes.
I am doomed.
Good night.