Ten free hours of on-line comes in the mail and lays on top of my computer for four months. Then two more packets of freebies good for fifteen hours arrive on the same day and I make my decision: I'm going into cyberspace. With help of course. I call the two computer repair experts in town. Both fess up to not having any experience with internet. I'm not surprised. I've passed plenty of arcades. I know who the professionals are.

So I ask around and hire a scrawny fourteen year old named Gio who squints in the unfamiliar sunshine and hasn't much use for language. His mother delivers him after school. He marches in, raises a dowsing finger and begins twisting until he spots the machine.

Within seconds he's pumping initials and nonsense words into it. He's setting it up, he says. He spends two hours downloading programs, sprucing up the color, punching in commands that will expedite and simplify use. Finally he says the machine is ready.

Obviously I will be a more difficult problem. My job is to be patient and learn the language, he says. He gives me a name, gives up his seat, and walks to the door.

I'm giddy. The big moment. Before he's out of the driveway I'm channel surfing, avoiding the obvious freak shows Gio had warned about. I'm no kid. I've read about nuts using internet to get their twisted rocks off. S and M. Bestiary fun. I ride the waves and find a cozy looking channel, 50 plus. I check in and "Annie" lights up in the right hand corner. I'm in. I'm one of the gang.

Skeetrat greets me. So does Bubbles. I write in Hi. The icon that my teacher promised if someone wanted a private conference pops up. I haven't said two words. One exactly: Hi. I can't imagine. "Do you still do tricks?" says WWIIboy. I tell him I've been trying to learn to juggle but it's more difficult than it looks. "I mean bedroom tricks. Are you interested?" Should I answer? I do. No, I say.

I mean, for God's sake, it's suppertime and the potatoes aren't on yet. The only body part that interests me is my left elbow. I'm worried the pain is arthritic. I punch close and watch two other icons surface. Skeetrat wants to know if I want to be tickled. What in the hell kind of question is that? I close him off and stupidly click on MR.T who wants my age and measurements before I skeedaddle off the channel.

It's the name I think. So I change it to Marbles. Unisex. Vague meaning. Full of new hope I surf along until I come to the B'Hai faith. I could use a little uplift. Anyway, it's soul not body, religion lusts after and my soul's in pretty good shape for my age. I'm greeted. I nod in return. The B'Hais are very tolerant, without racial bias, says godluv. An icon appears. Ritaline wants to know if I'm a B'Hai. I answer no. I'm about to add that I hold this religion in high esteem when Ritaline says he does not care about my color or culture. Do I want to screw? I check out.

"What's up," asks my husband. By now I have a good idea of what's up but I don't dare tell him. He's proud of my new venture. My teacher has given him a good report. I show promise. I tell him I'm channel surfing and hear him say to his duck hunting partner, "She's making international friends."

They're friendly all right. Nevertheless, his pronouncement induces me to punch in a Dutch station. Someone asks me who I am. In Dutch of course. I respond proudly with a few scarcely used words of a little used language. The icon appears. You guessed it. I jump from country to country. I'm suddenly being pursued and tickled on four continents.

"I may be too old for this business" I say to my husband. He puts down his newspaper and says, "Nonsense. You're never too old to learn something new." Oh, Lordy.

Days go by. My teacher teaches me to use E-mail and suddenly the phone bill shrinks by half. Then one day a breakthrough. I need some information. I need to know the publishing house of an obscure author. After rifling through my reference books, I visit the public library. There's nothing on him in the card file. The reference librarian tries inter-library loan. No luck. He's a newly published author and the work is possibly religious in nature. The librarian suggests a specialized bookstore.

By now the morning's shot but I feel I'm making headway. The Christian bookstore's a bust. He could be psuedo-Christian, the clerk says. She suggests I try the mainstream bookstore in the mall. They're loaded with psuedo. He's right. That clerk says the author is "sci-fi philosopher sort of." She's out of his books but can order one. I bite. It'll cost me $18.95 to get the information but by now that sounds cheap.

It's past lunch time and I'm drained. Nothing exhausts me more than looking for a lost article, be it eyeglasses or information. I go to the food circle and succumb to a Mexican lunch of a quarter million calories and as my body slips into the twilight zone, my mind opens wide and in pops a new thought. This information that I've spent the entire morning chasing down and which will now cost me another trip to the mall and nineteen smackers could be sitting inside my computer along with the tricks and the ticklers.

I hurry home and, with my coat still on, check in and choose a search engine. I write in the name of the author, hit the key, and within seconds, ten references appear. More than I want to know is waiting to be accessed without stress or cost. I'm thrilled. My husband wants to know what's happened. I can't tell him yet.

Instead I call my teacher. Gio, I say to him, I can do it. My mind's figuring it out. I'm thinking computer. Gio's semi-interested. I can hear Doom sounds in the background.

"Tell me more about it Monday," he says. You might be ready to learn to download. "I am, I tell him." I'm ready.