My MacBook crashed last night. More accurately, the screen went dark after some emailing and would not turn back on. That’s not technically crashing, right? A disc drive crashes. A computer that won’t turn on is just not working.

Yet “not working” seems old-fashioned as a descriptive for high tech. An electric mixer unable to turn the beaters is not working. A lawn mower that refuses to start is not working. But an ergonomically perfect, visually sleek device that no longer responds to a finger’s push with a flash of light and the intonation of perky music? It seems rather to have left the earth and flown off into another cosmos, taking its powers with it. “Goodbye, Earthling Reynolds. I’m done with you. You are no longer deserving of my magic.”

My laptop is punishing me for a recent spate of railings against technology to anyone who would listen (and that includes my car’s dashboard). I have been vociferously lamenting the degree to which technology affects my life, railing the hardest on the very days when I am most blessed by it: the days when I teach Russian history online to students across the US; the occasions when Skype allows me to interview a conductor in Italy or a composer in Canada; the instances when a frantic google search saves me from stating a seriously wrong date before stepping out to give a lecture.

So it serves me right if my MacBook with its Hello-Kitty stickers has upped and left me.

Apple stopped making my aged model with an internal DVD/CD player in 2012, so it better be fixable! Still, insofar as business functions, we will be okay, regardless of what Mr. Tech-Guru reports. Hank and I work off Dropbox and our data is on “the cloud,” so everything is still there. Endless hours of video live on a device with seventeen hard drives called a drobo, so no worry there either. Nonetheless, it is sobering to acknowledge how much of one’s activity is frozen when the on-switch goes awry.

I could live with technology’s tyranny better were it not for the peculiar panics it brings. Perhaps you never experience these phenomena (if so, I laud and envy you), but more times than I want to admit, my technology leaves me scared. I misplace my phone (don’t ask how often), or leave a charger behind in a hotel room. I know hot tea should not be placed near technology (I’ll let you finish that thought). Finally, there’s the sickening dip in my stomach when, for an instant, I fail to spot the computer bag at my feet while struggling with a backpack and overflow bags to board a plane. I don’t recall these panicky feelings being a constant part of my pre-computer life.

Undeniably electronic devices hold the state of our lives in their grasp. Access to our data in the wrong hands can undo us, no matter how well we encrypt or create passwords. Frustration ensues if we are blocked out of our e-calendars and contact lists. Plus, however shall we shop without technology? We would have to search things out in stores and decide with no reviews or price comparisons to guide us. For that matter, how did we shop before the internet? Oh, I remember. We relied on 1) the existence of fewer choices for any item, 2) a valid presumption that most things were well made and functioned as designed, and 3) shopkeepers who knew their trades and could advise their customers.

See, I’m still railing. But actually, today has been a day of liberation. Except for worry about what the demise of my MacBook will cost, I have been giddy with happiness. Potential business chaos can be monitored on my iPhone. I have a reasonable excuse for not answering emails requiring more than a paragraph. And best of all, a benevolent cyber-permission has descended, forcing me to do other things—things I put off because the computer always calls me to sit down and cozy up to it.

But today was different. I finally got a package ready and, drumroll, actually mailed it. Shocking, right? I cleaned out a corner of our library stacked with pictures that suffered during our last move (oh, the tinkling of broken glass inside of bubble-wrapped frames!). Carefully I sorted three stacks: dead, capable of revival, miraculously intact. Hank and I even hung a few of the survivors (we’ve been trying to do that for months).

In between, there was time to help my daughter set up a sewing machine that we found online (another example of technology’s benefit). It was a beloved, but no longer needed, 80s Singer offered by a magical woman living on a remote hill below Pilot Mountain (Andy Griffin’s Mt. Pilot for those of you who remember). We thought we were wandering to the ends of the earth as we drove to pick it up last week, but forgot the trek upon seeing the gorgeous things she sews, as well as her medicinal herb garden and greenhouses for cultivating heritage seeds.

So today was a good day. Celebrating that fact while putting dinner in the oven, I got the dreaded call. “Hi, this is David of Triad Mac.”

Turns out it really was the off-on switch, except these things don’t have an off-on switch. Instead, that function is interwoven into the digital guts of the keyboard. Take a memo: you cannot fix a laptop’s off-on switch. Fortunately, David had a used keyboard for my Old Faithful. I can get everything back tomorrow.

Formally speaking, I am thrilled about that. Inside I think: oh, for another day like today—a holiday characterized by guiltless hours of freedom from the screen! And then I remembered my wacky theory that my MacBook wearied of my ingratitude and departed. I need to approach it with renewed respect and, let’s face it, utter amazement at what it can do. Plus, it will be exciting to have a keyboard without dust or residue from tortilla chips and no letters worn off from incessant pounding.

So fly back to me, obsolete little MacBook. I promise to wait until January 2020 before re-releasing my customary ire at technology’s tentacles.