I knew this day was coming. The day when I’d curse my attempts at ‘maturity’ and ‘being a normal person’ by actually reading and responding to email.
A few short months ago, I was working on a study with a very respected prof – and after I failed to respond to an email of his in about two days, he phoned me on my mobile to ‘ask if I were okay.’
That was a definite “F” on the report card of life.
Thus, I decided that despite my desire not to be accessible 24/7 as our society seems to have deemed “normal,” I would have to start carrying my mobile and checking my email multiple times daily, etc.
At first, I was annoyed. I kicked and punched things a lot, and whined about how unnatural all of this really is.
Shortly, though, my love of gmail grew exponentially. I learned how to filter things and tag them – such as emails of recipes from my crazy old aunt, and “make a wish” forwards from people who are clearly not biological relatives.
From there, I became simply enraptured – all of my contacts in one place! The ability to keep track of prior conversations! A calendar! Unlimited Space!
Oh, the joys gmail gives me are truly endless.
Until today. Today is the day that gmail sent me hunting for Xanax and pacing around my parlor and chronicling for my roommate my struggle with nausea and my ever-growing desire to vomit.
Too graphic? Too dramatic?
I’m not sure – but if you were moving shortly and needed to get in touch with movers, launderers, building supervisors, etc. you might be saying “FML” and writing a weblog about it, too. Because clearly, that is a really f*cking productive move!
Oh Google, you are a heart breaker.