An intelligent Princetonian, unable to open her mailbox

I can't open my mailbox. For years I've thought myself to be a moderately intelligent, fairly observant and at least mostly commonsensical girl who could handle the basics. I occasionally joke about filling the Alabama quota here at Princeton, but I never actually thought that to be true. But here I stand, in Frist, turning the tiny dial as instructed and no dice. And certainly no mail. I can't open my mailbox.

The mailbox is merely one of the many technological challenges I've been exposed to since arriving at Princeton in the fall of 2001. Princeton claims that our liberal arts education continues long after the precepts and lectures are over; I'm starting to believe them. Since coming here, I've studied encryption, child development theory and Puritan conversion narratives. But what I will take from my time here, is the exposure to innovation and technology, but not without a few speed bumps I've felt along the way.

I didn't discover ATMs until my sophomore year. Rather, I didn't see the incredible power of sticking in a card and receiving seemingly infinite amounts of cash — or the danger that lies therein. My roommates went with me for my first time. As an "ATM Virgin," they armed me with vital tips: "Don't look at the camera, they'll think you're suspicious;" "Yeah, good, write the pin number on the back of the card," and "Get ready, it comes out quick and you've got to catch it!" Witches, all of them. At least the camera got some good footage.

It wasn't until last spring that I discovered you could deposit funds into ATMs, or that you needed your card to do so. Luckily, a worldly senior friend came by and, after watching me try to stick the envelopes in every crack possible, asked if I needed help. "Well, it doesn't want my money," I told him. He tried for several minutes before pausing, "AJ, you did put your card in, right?" "Well at home it's just a little slot . . . on the side . . . you just open it and . . ." I heard him laughing as he walked downstairs for pizza.

Princeton has installed smart technology to make me feel dumb. I walk into my bathroom and lights blink on. For the first several days, I looked around for whoever was in there playing with the lights before realizing that it had sensors. Jadwin locker rooms have them too, making the hallways a perfect place for massive games of red light, green light — or no light, light.

It's even spread to the doors. The more posh dorms on campus no longer have alarmed "means of egress" that buzz obnoxiously when left open too long. They now have personal proctor messages informing you, "This door has been open too long . . . The door is ajar, please shut the door." The first time I got caught by that one I looked around, wondering where on earth the proctor man was, and how much he was getting paid to monitor the door.

I suppose Princeton is only trying to prepare me for what I'll face in the real world. Even Wal-Mart, my unchanging safe haven where time stands still, now has self-check out, an amazing combination of a weight sensitive conveyer belt, a scanning screen, and a bagging area with an item detection sensor. My roommate, a Nashville native, and I successfully scanned all our items and were figuring out how to slide the credit card when we heard "an unexpected item has entered the bagging area, please remove the item." Confused, we stood and starred at the heap of bags precariously balanced on the bagging area. The machine got louder, "AN UNEXPECTED ITEM HAS ENTERED THE BAGGING AREA, PLEASE REMOVE THE ITEM." People were starting to look. She quickly shook all the bags. The machine stopped yelling.

Technology is changing Princeton. Cell phones, last year's mark of the freshman class, now sound off all over campus. Tivo allows students to play rousing games Jeopardy, pausing the live show to debate the answers. Amazon.com saves your credit card number, allowing you to click three times and have two DVDs on the way to your dorm.

And now, even the Parcel Post, the most archaic of systems has beaten me with its advanced security system. I'll admit that I'm about as technologically advanced as the pony express, but it shouldn't be this hard. Gone are the combination locks of junior high — twice to the right, once to the left, right to the number — the systems of today include four turns to the left, two to the right while stopping on the number, left to the final number, then a quick turn to the right as you pull the door open.

For three weeks now, I've had showdowns with my mailbox, #991, and each time, it has prevailed. I think it's a personal thing — my friends can open it, my roommates can open it, I think I even saw a little kid playing with it and it popped open. Me? Not a chance. I've decided to include prayer in my combination the next time I attempt it. Is there a Patron Saint for technological ignorance?

Ashley Johnson is an English major from Florence, Ala.