Why My Wi-Fi Loves Me

By: Douglas Adams (or his mildly confused Indian cousin)

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a man in possession of a laptop must be in want of Wi-Fi.

It’s also a truth less universally acknowledged that Wi-Fi only stops working when you really, really need it — like when you’re sending an important email, paying a bill, or pretending to work on Zoom while actually watching YouTube.

My relationship with Wi-Fi is complicated. On good days, it hums gently, like a loyal pet. On bad days, it behaves like a moody teenager — unpredictable, full of attitude, and utterly uninterested in my deadlines.

One fine evening, I decided to download a “small” software update. The file was 4 GB, which my internet estimated would take “3 minutes.” A lie. Three hours later, the progress bar had moved exactly 2%.

Naturally, I did what every rational adult does: turned the router off and on again. This is the sacred ritual of the digital age — a modern form of prayer. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it makes the router flash mysterious red lights, as if to say, “You shouldn’t have done that.”

I even tried talking to my Wi-Fi. I said things like “Come on, buddy,” and “You can do this.” I swear the signal bars mocked me. One of them even disappeared out of spite.

Finally, I gave up and switched to mobile hotspot. My phone, bless its overconfident soul, warned: “Data may run out soon.” I laughed like a madman — it already had.

And yet, I know tomorrow morning, I’ll wake up, reconnect, and forgive it again. Because love is temporary, but buffering is forever.