Moving Day

A lifetime ago, my son's to be exact, we moved into this house. It was after months of searching and deciding and hours of paperwork and eventual heavy lifting, but we were finally in our own home after years of living in a one bedroom apartment. The baby was coming any day, and we were, at last, safely ensconced in the nest that my wife and I had so happily landed. As we lay there in bed that first night, sleep did not come quickly. With the whole rest of this great big house above and below us, my wife whispered into the dark: "Can we go home now?"
That's how I am feeling now as I sit in front of my brand new computer. More to the point, my brand new CPU. As I stood in front of the myriad of options at the great big electronics store, I tried to talk myself out of making a major purchase. I rationalized it. I agonized over it. I went into denial, and before I could remember the rest of the stages, I called my wife to come and meet me. Where the two of us agonized over many of the same points that I had been mulling on my own.
What does it mean that "upgrading" is something that I now feel that I must do? I have nursed my "old" machine for the past seven years with love and care, who's to say that I couldn't make it last another six or eight? Then it got easier when I realized that I could keep the old machine in the family. My son could move into it, and I could go and visit it whenever I wanted. It will be just down the hall.
But it's not the same. The keyboard is light and airy, without the rattle of crumbs and dirt that I have become accustomed to. All that speed that I had heard about on our new Internet provider was now visible in front of me, and applications opened without me having to step out to the kitchen for a snack. And best of all, there was a brand new terabyte of space for me to put whatever I cared to into it. Big, empty space.
Can I go home now?