There are people who believe that inanimate objects are incapable of strong emotion, well any emotion actually. I think they are wrong. It is very clear to me that machines hate me. I don't hate machines. In fact, I appreciate their usefulness very much. I do not, however, understand machines. They sense that. They hone in on my weakness and conspire to make my life hell on earth whenever I try to tinker with anything the least bit mechanical--punishment for my failure to comprehend the allure of gears and shafts and precision timing. Even simple tools elude my ability to master.
Really, I don't consider myself an incompetent person as a general rule. Machines hate me. I have been sewing a lot in the past few days. I like my old sewing machine (a 1960's vintage Singer). I try to take care of it. Take today...I'd finished a project and figured I would brush out the dust and fiber specks and give the machine a nice drink of oil. The manual shows the hows and wheres of completing these tasks and Mike often reminds me that machines need oil. I was trying to do a good thing. I took off the coverings and oiled away. Then, the simple task of screwing the covers back in place. Could I do it? No. Why? I have no idea, but the screws just wouldn't catch they way they should and then the wheel wouldn't turn. I did not touch anything that would have made the machine bind up. I had to call Mike down to put it back in working order.
Machines hate me. There is no other explanation.