AI and Airport Sweatpants

AI is all the rage. ChatGPT and all the other little human-wanna-be-robots are crawling the digital space, luring us in with one clever idea and Google failure at a time. And today, AI has me pondering the idea of sweatpants in the airport. 

How are they related? Let me take you on a little journey of the mind, and I do promise, although you’ll see a few em dashes in my writing (because I’ve always loved them and my 2020 blog posts are proof, okay?) I won’t be calling on my virtual associate for this one. Besides, I don’t think she would be the biggest fan of this topic anyway. But I shouldn’t assume that, because maybe even robots have evolved to have a little self-awareness now, too. 

I should admit that I do in fact, have the ChatGPT window open on my screen almost daily. I’d never use it for my creative free-flowing thoughts, but I’ve certainly stared at a blank page for far too long and go crawling, begging for a little ideation from the internet bots. Give me a quippy this or a concise that. Make it easy, please. Make me dumber…maybe?

Since I write all day, every day, I’ve come to be a little suspicious of indicators of AI’s writing style. If a bot can have a style, that is. I’ve come to know the words it chooses, and most of the time, I tilt my head and give it a little appreciative nod. Yes, that actually works well, thank you. 

And then, like any over-indulged American sitting behind a computer screen, I hit a point where I become an ingrate and nothing is quite right. I stomp my little foot and tap the keys harder, whining for better, more, different. 

The fiction books I crack open in the evening tell a different story. They have beautiful gardens of words, flowing with streams of fresh vocabulary and phrases that warm my heart like the sun beaming on a budding rose. Pages that only a human mind could write, of course. And I become mad that I’ve argued with an artificial being to churn out lines that just won’t do.

And the sweatpants…oh the sweatpants in the airport. That’s another talk of the town these days. How are Americans so underdressed when traveling through the skies? Not that many years ago, strolling through the airport was a high-class privilege. Slacks, button-ups, ties, skirts, stockings (gasp). 

It all has me thinking how much I love a good elastic waistband when my legs are draped over the rigid seats as I lounge like a troll at my gate. But I like it, and everyone is doing it. It’s become kind of a “thing,” you know?

AI is the virtual equivalent of sweatpants at the airport. It’s easy. It’s comfortable. Everybody is doing it, and if you show up using words you read in a Dickens novel, oh what a (intelligent) loser you’ll be. The standard gets set, and we all follow along, even if it’s sloppier than we intended. Even if a pair of high-waisted jeans, a belt, and a crisp white shirt are a lot more flattering on me and express much more character, I choose the sweatpants, and if I’m lucky, a matching sweatshirt. 

I don’t have a conclusion here, because I know the comfort. And if I put my foot down and refuse AI, will I look back one day and be basically the girl who said no to smartphones, or email, or any amazing new technology that has greatly enhanced my life?

Maybe I’ll never know. But I see the threat to talent that only comes from imperfection. I get a little nervous about the standard that generations behind me may only get to live up (or down) to. I recognize that this very website of mine would be a little more in shambles if I didn’t call upon AI for some serious help. It’s there. I use it. Dare I say at this point that I need it.

But as someone who loves to write, I keep one eye open to the dangers of its creative standard. Because words can be beautiful. And people should know that lovely bouquets aren’t born bundled together in perfect formation, without thorns, and tied in a bow. They start deep in the dirt as a seed of imagination that spends some time buried, and then they sprout into shapes that seem bewildering, grow up into flowers that open to the sun and display their full glory. The best kinds of writing must start in the heart, flow a little through the mind, and come up for air, even if gasping from the journey. 

And what I know of creation is that anything worth admiring doesn’t simply appear from nothing.