Are you old enough to remember what it was like to pick up letters at the post office? When good news and bad news came in an envelope penned and sealed by human touch? I remember the anticipation of it all, checking each day to see if I got mail. When it finally came, I would hold it in my hand and try to guess by the bulk of it how many pages there would be. I'd put my letter in my bag like a wrapped up Christmas present, eager to get home and find a quiet place to unwrap it. You can read a letter over and over again, marvel at the penmanship, scour the meaning between lines, stare at it as though it had eyes to reciprocate feeling. They were kept safe in special boxes, tucked away for special times you needed them. The more you read them the better they got, though tattered and faded. They were precious artifacts of life, each printed letter emitting the energy and life of the sender.
I don't feel that way about email today! Email I want to hang by the personified fingernails and archive in the box labeled "execution". I want to spam every correspondence that doesn't come from a breathing human being. I want to delete the blinking daylights out of every ad in my incoming!!
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I'm supposed to be home resting. Tap, tap, tap. Beside the fact that I look 6 months pregnant from the post-op swelling, I'm supposed to take it easy and heal properly. Tap, tap, tap. There's just one little problem. My email inbox. Each time I go to check my mail is like walking into a matrix, flashing data that transports me to a virtual desk piled high with demands.. I can't ignore the memos and notices, the scheduled trainings, due dates for submission and requests for data. I mean I could. I could just not log on and pretend I live in some technologically deprived country, but who am I kidding? There's some kid in a barangay in Mabini playing the latest version of Final Fantasy XIII online right now. What's my excuse? The same place I go to find out if Old Navy has Spring Faves for Girls on sale is where I also find out I'm non-compliant in my submission of report #287. And the mental checklist begins, huge stick-on chart paper on the wall of my mind that constantly flickers neon warnings "Due Now! Due Now!" Every notification begs an answer to the question, "didn't you get my email?"
I'm supposed to be home resting. Tap, tap, tap. Beside the fact that I look 6 months pregnant from the post-op swelling, I'm supposed to take it easy and heal properly. Tap, tap, tap. There's just one little problem. My email inbox. Each time I go to check my mail is like walking into a matrix, flashing data that transports me to a virtual desk piled high with demands.. I can't ignore the memos and notices, the scheduled trainings, due dates for submission and requests for data. I mean I could. I could just not log on and pretend I live in some technologically deprived country, but who am I kidding? There's some kid in a barangay in Mabini playing the latest version of Final Fantasy XIII online right now. What's my excuse? The same place I go to find out if Old Navy has Spring Faves for Girls on sale is where I also find out I'm non-compliant in my submission of report #287. And the mental checklist begins, huge stick-on chart paper on the wall of my mind that constantly flickers neon warnings "Due Now! Due Now!" Every notification begs an answer to the question, "didn't you get my email?"
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