Ah, the saga of a power outage—akin to a suspenseful thriller where the only mystery is when you’ll regain access to the online world.

One minute, I was enjoying the comforting glow of my screen; the next, I was enveloped in darkness. Thus began my 2.5-day adventure back to a pre-digital age, thanks to a fragile power grid and a fried modem.

Living in an area where blackouts are as routine as mismatched socks, we’ve morphed into makeshift survivalists, always prepared for the next blackout. Or so I thought. My lanterns turned out to be equipped with outdated batteries, forcing us to rely on our phone flashlights to rummage through various “junk drawers” for actual flashlights. Ultimately, we were left with the stark realization: we were powerless.

You don’t truly appreciate electricity until you attempt to draft posts on your phone, squinting at the minuscule screen like a watchmaker or dentist working without a magnifying glass. Despite my efforts, my fingers only managed to produce nonsensical text. Typing on a tiny keyboard with long nails is as futile as threading a needle while wearing boxing gloves.

Yet, as the saying goes, when life hands you lemons, you dive into lemonade recipes shared by those you admire. Unable to create content, I turned to consuming it, immersing myself in the writings of various authors: Jay Squires, Sam David Parker, Sara Nobahar, and many more.

I scrolled through posts, applauding and sometimes commenting, my respect for their creativity only growing. However, attempting to comment with my long nails turned every message into a jumble of misspellings. Even auto-correct seemed to throw in the towel, baffled by my typing.

I briefly considered trimming my nails to a more manageable length—a drastic step for desperate times. But I envisioned myself as a modern-day Samson, losing my strength with each cut, so that notion quickly vanished along with the warmth.

When power was finally restored after two unsuccessful attempts by the Electric Cooperative, I discovered my modem had passed away, its lights dimmer than my hopes for a swift resolution. It was supposedly protected by an expensive surge protector, yet it succumbed to this latest electrical tantrum.

As I embarked on the quest for a new modem, I found myself ensnared in the usual purgatory of customer service, where time seems to halt. I narrated the tragic demise of my modem to three different agents, each requiring a fresh recounting as if auditioning for a role on TV. By the time I finally secured a technician’s visit, it seemed like everyone in my county had beaten me to it. I was scheduled for an agonizing two days later—an eternity in this digital age, akin to being sentenced to dial-up hell.

For those too young to recall, dial-up modem sounds were a cacophony of beeps and boops, culminating in an ear-piercing screech before settling into a hum to indicate a connection.

There I sat, shivering beneath an electric blanket since our home takes ages to warm up, awaiting the arrival of the one individual who could restore my digital lifeline. My modem seemed to mock me, reminding me of my crippling reliance on the internet for virtually everything. I was marooned in a disconnection limbo, where sanity hung by a thread and my only “MEDIUM” interaction was with my phone’s tiny screen and even tinier keys.

The day before the technician’s arrival dragged on longer than the most tedious Monday at the worst job I ever had (that’s a story for another time). I found myself reminiscing about when my greatest concern was someone picking up the landline and interrupting my dial-up. At least then, the enemy was identifiable and could be berated. Now, I faced the silent agony of betrayal by an inanimate object—my modem, which had transformed into a paperweight, mocking my isolation.

I even caught myself bargaining with it, pleading for just a flicker of light while I repositioned it in different outlets. “Come on, don’t do this to me. I promise to dust you in the future, I swear!” Yet, it remained silent, its lights unyielding, disbelieving my promise.

As the technician’s appointment drew near, it became evident that this wasn’t merely a service call; it was a quest for reconnection in the most literal sense. A journey to reclaim what I’d previously taken for granted—unrestricted, uninterrupted access to the world via my 15-inch computer screen. With renewed hope, I awaited my rendezvous with the technician, eager to bask once more in the glow of my modem’s LED lights.

And like all epic tales, mine too reached a satisfying conclusion. The internet was restored, and with it, my sanity. Reconnecting with the digital realm felt like a wave of normalcy washing over me. The ordeal concluded, and I emerged victorious, nails intact.

Reflecting on the power outage saga, it became clear that it was more than a test of patience; it underscored the significance of resilience, the joy of content consumption, and the undeniable fact that long nails and cellphone keyboards are eternal adversaries—best suited only for texting.

So here I stand, back in the realm of connectivity, my modem functioning as if nothing had transpired. I’ve returned to writing, my nails tapping on the computer keys, each stroke only a distant echo of the ordeal that nearly drove me to madness. To anyone who might find themselves in a similar situation, remember: cherish your nails, maintain your sanity, and above all, laugh at the absurdity of becoming a slave to that little blinking box.