I’ve had my personal email account for about 104 years. Ok, maybe not quite. Definitely 17.
On the right runs a weary list of things to do and demands for my time and attention. On the left are the chapters of my life, stored away in tidy folders. I am the queen of folders – pictures of clothes/jewellery/shoes I might buy (I won’t), emails relating to magazines I’ve worked on (they might be useful, one day), and of course, some involve relationships that didn’t work out. These are the e-chapters of my life.
Casually browsing this morning, I dipped into a folder with an ex’s name on it. It was like whirling off in a time machine.
There were fond and funny emails about weekend trips away, entertaining tic-tacking as we made arrangements for dates, some ramblings about how great I am (from him, clearly), and some mushy stuff that can only be described as e-love letters.
“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he of times-gone-by, wrote. “I’ve never met anyone like you before. Intelligent, witty…” I’ll stop there before you gag. You get my point.
Of course, it all turned to grey, baggy, back-of-the-draw emergency undies several months later, but with selective memory and thick, rose-tinted glasses, they make for a quick-fix mood boost. For a few seconds, I transported myself back to those few months when I was the centre of someone else’s world. By day I was desired and pined for, by night I was a young, thin, entertaining firecracker.
I clicked into another folder and found more. “Thank you for such a wonderful weekend,” this one wrote. “My sides hurt from laughing so much. Can’t wait to…” I’ll leave that one there too. We’ll call these ones 'e-lust letters'. Lordee, I was apparently good.
Before the digital destruction of paper, lovers sat thoughtfully on rocks with the wind blowing in their hair, gazing out across rolling fields and penned poetry to each other declaring undying love. Then emails strutted into the party and a miffed Cupid turned off the wind machine in a huff and ramped up the bandwidth instead.