After being abandoned by my 18-year-old -- who for some odd reason thinks living in Nashville and going to art school is a lot more fun that staying at home and doing laundry for his brothers -- I have been forced to face the facts.

I am obsolete. In the world of microchips, Macs and megabytes, I have met the enemy and he is all of the above.

This has been a very hard reality for me to face -- I've always been proud of the fact that I can keep up with the latest electronic trend. I never had to have my kids program the flashing time on the VCR. I can import pictures and set up my own e-mail. I can add things to my web page and blog site with some very primitive HTML programming, and I even know what HTML stands for.

But the cell phones got me.

When computers and word processors first started coming out, my mother went into techno shock -- even threatening to quit her job if they replaced her trusty old IBM Seletric II with a word processor. It didn't help that it was one of the earlier models with lots of glitches and confusing instructions.

"I'm just too old to learn new tricks," she wailed.

Within two years, she had her own computer and was surfing the World Wide Web faster than you can say "Hang F10." All it took was the right motivation -- she realized there are all sorts of recipes on the net.

She also did the church newsletter and when she discovered all the fonts and clip art out there ... Think of Carrie Bradshaw at a Prada shoe sale. Think of Homer at a donut factory. Think of me in the Godiva section of Dillard's the day they invent fat-free, calorie-free, guilt-free truffles.

I, being a recent college graduate at the time and way smarter than anyone on earth, just rolled my eyes and told myself I would never fear the treasure trove of technology. I was strong, I was invincible, I was woman -- and I was a woman who loved computers.

But the cell phones got me.

I think, after a certain age, the brain shuts down.

"Limited memory," it tells me. So, I figure, I have to save that remaining cerebellum RAM for important stuff, such as future grandchildren, retirement parties, and the rules of contract bridge and shuffleboard. There is no more storage space to cope with every little change in every little phone they throw on the market.

I think the technophobia started with MP3 players. My son was trying to explain that this tiny box, the size of a pack of chewing gum, now held my entire CD collection.

"But how do I get it out?" I wailed.

Then there was Bluetooth. Living in the South, where we are proud of our eccentric folks, seeing people talking to themselves is not uncommon. One fellow I know carries on long conversations with Superman, convincing him that Supergirl is not dead, no matter what the comic book said. Another berates her long-gone mother for not letting her wear the strapless red dress to the prom.

But now, more people are talking to themselves, or appear to be, and you can't tell the eccentrics from the workaholics -- except that the eccentrics seem to enjoy their conversations a lot more.

With all of the new phone technology coming out, my old brain has called for a moratorium on the input of new data. I'm just going to have to keep using the old mental software, hoping it is compatible with the new hardware, until I can no longer reach out and touch someone without calling India for a customer service technician to guide me through the process.

Then, and only then, will the brain consider an upgrade, and that's only if all of my little techno-experts have moved out of the house.

-- Mary Reeves is a staff writer for the Times-Gazette. She can be reached at (931) 684-1200, ext. 215, or by e-mail at mreeves@t-g.com. This column is scheduled to print every Wednesday.