iHope.

Earlier in 2012, Apple announced an updated release of their wildly popular iPad, the iPad 2 with Retina Display. They called it "Resolutionary." Kitchy, cute. In the maelstrom of press on that release, I was struck by a conversation on NPR about how Brazil is the 6th largest economy in the world, and the interviewee kept bringing up the iPad 2. He honestly had to be reigned in by Steve Innskeep to stay on topic. Then they released the iPad Mini to compete with Amazon's Kindle and other electronic readers, and I was warned by Apple Store staffers to steer clear of visiting the store on launch day if I needed anything other than an iPad Mini. So I carted my aging and buggy iMac home with me and tinkered with it on my own. 

I have no less than 14 (!) Apple products currently in use in my personal and professional life, plus five other products that I just need the time to refurbish/update, and one that is out of commission but I'm keeping it for posterity — an original iPod. I have never once, in 25 years of owning Apple products, taken my products into the shop, with the exception of a forgotten password on my daughter's laptop. The in-product help features, coupled with the online help community, is so thorough that it makes us DIY'ers fearless. These products are reliable, user-friendly, elegant and relevant. While I am not an early-adopter (of anything really), I certainly get why the product release buzz exists. 

It's no secret to my very small cache of readers that I am 'refurbishing' my life and creating a new model. However I feel less like an Apple product and more like Windows 8, with a lot of glitches, crashes and weird user-experiences. So I'm feeling like I need to channel a little more Apple, a little more Steve Jobs.

Three years ago this spring I filed for divorce. That day in March 2010 was the last time that I sat across from my ex-husband for any extended period of time. It was the last time we talked extensively about anything. It was the last time we rode in a car together. It was the only time he said he was sorry and the last time he said, "I love you." Yes, it was a weird day. Sometimes when you look back, you really can say — that was the day, that was the moment. From that day forward, everything changed. I talked to him every single day for over 16 years and then one day, that was it. 

I'm not sure how that paragraph sounds, but let me be clear, I don't look at that day with some sort of bittersweet, poetic reflection. Three years later, it's just easy for me to look back and see that it was the turning point. It was the day that everything changed and I find that to be interesting. What do I do with that knowledge? How does identifying that day or giving it some additional poignancy really change my thinking about this path? What does that day say about what came next and how did it inform the new model? 

I've never developed a product, or enhanced a product, so I don't know what's involved in that process, but I imagine at a very basic level the designers are likely asking questions like, 'What does this function serve?" and, "What are barriers to the successful functioning of the product?" In learning about the iPad, I noted that the new one has something called an 'oleophobic coating.' Merriam-Webster defines that as, "having or relating to a lack of strong affinity for oils." Or in other words: anti-fingerprint. Seems as though fingerprints, or specifically the depositing of oils, can make touch screens less responsive. Knowing the user won't maintain it for optimal performance as well as they could/should, they developed a solution that keeps the user and the product in optimal harmony. I like it. 

My new model has something I call a 'dependaphobic coating.' I haven't found it in Merriam-Webster yet, but basically it's, "having or relating to a lack of strong affinity for being relied on for everything." The idea is to prevent overuse and therefore, auto-shutdown. I have to admit, it's still in development and I don't think I have it calibered right. Seems overly sensitive right now, but...more on that later. 

When I think back to that March day, it's bizarre to me how really fearless I was. As I sat across the attorney's table from my then-husband, he lobbed ridiculous demands that I knew would be difficult to navigate, and yet I didn't fear what was ahead. It was one of the few times in my life where I was very present in the moment and felt solid about why we were there. Then later the same afternoon, when we were alone, I stood across from him as he did a complete 180. He said he was sorry for things he knew I struggled with (for the first time ever), said he loved me and didn't want to get divorced, said he knew it could be better. When I did the obvious — which was to freak out at the Jeckyll and Hyde aspect to the day (and our life together, to be frank) — I wonder if he assumed the tears were an encouraging sign of a woman who didn't want to change her life. A woman who had too much to lose. A woman who was admitting to the vulnerability of history. This wasn't how I saw it. Not then, not now. The simplicity of it all came crashing down on me. Nothing would ever be the same and it shouldn't. It didn't work. The user-interface was fatally flawed and a new model had to be made. 

One of my favorite design quotes from Steve Jobs is, "Simple can be harder than complex: You have to work hard to get your thinking clean to make it simple. But it's worth it in the end because once you get there, you can move mountains." Three years after that March day, I've learned that I can easily muddle my design process with complexity. New applications, new packaging (and I don't mean a boob job), new user-interactions and required functionality. Many days during the last three years I honestly felt like a flip phone trying to be smartphone. (I may even be getting dangerously close to over-complicating the tech analogies!) Bottom line, that day was more simple than it was complex and being grounded in that simplicity helped me make the tough decisions that came next. It was a day that I eventually landed on the simple, and as Steve Jobs would say, the "intuitively obvious." 

So what's happening now? Why all of the glitches and crashes? Have I lost my radar for the intuitively obvious? Am I so wrapped up in the complexity of the change(s) that I can't find the simplicity? I think it can look and feel that way, especially to those close to me, but what I really believe, as a wise friend noticed, is that I am finally in a place where I can let down a little and cry. Cry from exhaustion. Cry for my daughter. Cry over the disappointment of divorce. Cry over my credit score. I think in truth, it's just a lot of emotion that previously didn't have a place to land. I find myself overcomplicating the emotion because I didn't always feel comfortable having it or that it was acceptable to have it. Now I guess I do. And that is the intuitively obvious simple answer. I am finally comfortable having, what anyone on the planet would assume are normal, post-divorce emotions. And most importantly perhaps — the very fact that I am able to have the emotion tells me that I trust this path. 

I don't have to have all of the answers for how I will successfully navigate every step of this new life. I just need to trust that everything that has led me to this moment will ground me in the next. That my emotions and the vulnerability those bring, however uncomfortable, will simultaneously help me heal and ground me in my growth. And I do trust that in concept. That's the 'simple' that I needed to land on. This is a good design incubator for me and if I really focus on keeping it simple, maybe I can work on my version of the A6x chip — better memory with a longer battery life.

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As always, RIP Steve Jobs.