I am a little concerned. Recently, we replaced the roof on our house thanks to Irene (the hurricane, not a particularly rambunctious relative).
We were ready to schedule the roofers to come measure our roof, when they showed up with the shingles, ready to go.
“What the heck?” I asked my contractor. “How did they know how many shingles to buy?”
“Google,” he replied.
In our new world of weird words like Google and Twitter, I instantly knew what he meant. They used something like Google Earth and found our neighborhood via satellite. They then found our street. Next, the house. Finally, they focused on the roof and got exact measurements. No need to show up for measurement when they can use Big Brother.
I was pleased by the convenience, but horrified by the implications. I can just imagine a future where Google impacts every day activities. Consider this:
- You walk into Victoria’s Secret for a new bra. You look for the woman in black with the tape measure around her neck to help you find the perfect fit. She holds her phone up to your chest and says, “Hello, 34C, Razorback, hook in front. How can I help you?”
- In search of a late night snack, you walk into a convenience store. Reaching for the Tasty Cake chocolate covered mini-donuts (which are the best packaged donuts EVER, by the way), an alarm begins to ring wildly. A spotlight descends and a God-like voice says, “Aren’t you on a diet? Aren’t you still 22.5 pounds away from your goal weight which is actually 20 pounds away from your REAL goal weight? Why are you eating donuts at 11:00 p.m.?”
- You’re in a meeting at work, and your boss is presenting an eighty-page PowerPoint deck of useless information. You are looking at the PowerPoint with great interest while dreaming of the snack you will get from the cafeteria when the pain has ended. Suddenly, your boss stops his presentation and says . . . “Donna, my Blackberry is measuring your level of interest in my presentation and it’s surprisingly low. Would you like to share something?”
Yep, I’m a 1984 kind of girl that is terrified of the future implications of a world where machines can measure our lives while spinning in space, millions of miles away.
I don’t even want to think about what information aliens might have about me with all of their advanced technology. If they ever landed, would they come to my front door and force me to clean under my couch where aged, fallen snacks exist? Would they let my educated friends know that I love to watch “Tabitha’s Salon Takeover?” Would they show up at my Jenny Craig session where I’m lamenting about how their diet foods aren’t working and project, onto the wall, a picture of me eating Cool Ranch Doritos at midnight?
I don’t like being measured up close, so I sure don’t need it happening from space. Next time you see me in my house my windows and head will be covered with tin-foil.