Ooooh, they really know how to push my buttons.

I wish I could figure out how to push theirs.

The stereotype is that older people fumble with technology. Screens freeze us. Robocalls confuse us. If a grandkid with a mean streak tells us we have to do the chicken dance to make our streaming services serve us, we ask if we need to cluck.

Another ugly truth about seniors — we require a lot of supplements and medicines. Where do we get them? The pharmacy.

The pharmacy is the one place that things still should be handled the old-fashioned way, with words and real people.

And then it happened. I walked into my pharmacy last week to pick up my blood pressure medication, and I was greeted by — a screen. And a sign that ordered me to check in by entering my information into the cold, impersonal device.

I no longer get to walk up to the counter, where the pharmacist knows me by name and simply hands me my script.

That process worked just fine. Simple, efficient and friendly.

But apparently, customer blood pressure wasn’t spiking high enough. I ran the risk of no longer needing pills and more pills. Obviously, a new system needed to be invented.

A more complicated system. One to frustrate and infuriate customers — old people in particular. That’s what they get for surviving so long.

Now I, one of those seniors, am required to bumble with a touch screen that’s too low and positioned at a goofy angle designed to make typing nigh unto impossible.

The touch screen won’t even let me near a human being until I type in more data than the pharmacist ever wanted before he handed me my amber pill bottle.

Why does the screen need to know the size of my ears, if I prefer The Beatles or the Rolling Stones or the birthdate of the fourth president of the United States before I’m permitted to approach the throne of an actual person?

OK, I exaggerate. But only a little.

And the keys stick. How do make-believe keys on a touch screen stick? It’s not like cookie crumbs wedged themselves under the keys. I concentrate on the picture of the keyboard and tap out my name only to look up to see that my name now is “Brtn ole.”

Ole is right. This is a bunch of, uh, bullish on the market junk.

I’ve groused before about QR codes at restaurants. I had to buy a newer, fancier phone if I ever hoped to eat out again.

The fast-food places don’t want you to interact with humans anymore either. If you were too stubborn to download the slew of apps (I have yet to download one) to order a burger and fries, you must use the kiosks with the menu boards. Scroll, find and tap the pictures of whatever it is that you want to eat.

It’s like being back in preschool: “Can you find the horsey? Point to the picture of the horsey. What does the horsey say? Point to the size of fries you want with that.”

If I could find a picture of a bucket of nails, I’d tap that, because the whole thing makes me want to spit nails.

Department stores and their scanners… You know the joke: I had the grumpiest, rudest, most incompetent cashier ever at the store today. It was self-checkout.

That probably was me trying for the 17th time to get the scanner to read the bar code on a loaf of bread that I’m becoming less and less interested in buying with every passing “boing.”

I didn’t think that I, a bona fide introvert, would ever utter this statement, but I miss people. I don’t want an app nor a QR code nor a touch screen nor a scanner.

I want my pharmacist back, the one that said, “Oh, hey there, Burt. I’ve got it right here waiting for you. See you at the game Thursday.”

Why did someone have to put the touch on a friendly system that worked? No wonder we old people get grumpy.

Open your screen and type a message to Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com. He’ll scan it.