One day while she was visiting she asked, "Grandpappy (yes, Grandpappy; I chose it myself, it's unique) can I borrow your phone?" So I lent it to her and she helped me set up an online account with Apple or somebody; I haven't accessed it since so I really don't remember. She then downloads Temple Run and shows me how to play. Then she laughs at how inept I am at the game.
I'll show her, I thought. Between that visit and her next, I played that game all the time. I played until the battery died on my phone. I gathered coins and bonus points and leveled up several times. I upgraded the game with the coins I had won. I kept playing until the day came that I was in a zone. I ran and ran through that temple, missing nary a turn nor a jump, outrunning the ape like creatures which guard whatever that temple is or is supposed to be, and went farther than even I had imagined I could play. When that particular game was over, to my amazement and deep pride I had scored Three Million Seven Hundred Thousand points. I write it that way because it sounds better than 3,700,000.
I could hardly wait for my granddaughter's next visit, when I would have her in awe with this feat of smartphone derring-do. After her and her family had unpacked, she went and plopped down on the living room couch. "Ahem," I coughed, then announced, "I scored 3.7 million points on Temple Run."
"I don't play Temple Run anymore Grandpappy. It's boring." She said that with her eyes glued to whatever game she was playing then.
I visibly deflated. When you can't impress your grandchildren, who can you impress?