"Hi Honey,
I just remembered that it's my parent's anniversary on Friday, and we really should take them out to dinner. That means we have to cancel on Val and Stuart. Can you make the call? I'm tied up in meetings all day. Thanks.
Love,
Honey"
I sent that e-mail to my husband more than an hour ago and still no reply. I'm starting to get annoyed because I really do have a meeting coming up. I know he won't be thrilled to go out with my parents again, but I don't want to have to call and cancel Val and Stuart - they're really his friends, anyway. "Bing." I hear the familiar sound of an incoming e-mail and quickly change screens to check it out. It was from him.
"Friday's fine to take out your parents. I'll call Val and Stu."
That's what's so great about e-mail - straight answers with no confusion. Apparently, he had no objections to another family dinner, and he was okay with calling off our friends. But something was glaringly missing from his response. He answered me clearly enough, and I got the answer I wanted. So what was bugging me? What was wrong? Oh, now I see it - he didn't sign off with "Love, Honey." He must really be pissed at me. Am I going to have to buy something sexy to wear to bed tonight? Or should I tell him to forget about my parents and we'll stick with Val and Stuart. But that's ridiculous - he was probably in a hurry and just forgot to write "Love, Honey." But we always write "Love, Honey" at the end of our e-mails. That's our little thing.
When I first met Gary 20 years ago at a Memorial Day barbeque, we had an immediate connection. I noticed him from across the patio, with his shaggy brown hair and sweet smile. He charmed me with his disarming humor and warmth. I wouldn't kiss him on our first date, but I definitely did on our second. I didn't know it then, but I had found my soul mate.
Over the years, we always called each other "Honey" - on birthday cards, phone calls, e-mails, even when yelling across the house. A dropped "Honey," or God forbid, the use of the more formal "Gigi," meant that something was up, a definite red flag that all was not well in Honeyland. It could simply mean the sudden disappearance of the remote control or perhaps a home printer jam (my specialty,) or what I dreaded the most, something I had done.
Maybe I was being neurotic, but I couldn't stop thinking that Gary's last e-mail with the omission of "Love, Honey" was a glaring sign that something was wrong. I know my parents had been challenging lately, but we'd seen Val and Stuart a lot. What's the big deal, one little dinner with my parents? No, I'm not going to call him to see if he was angry. He already agreed and it's done. I need to get on with my work. I have a book to revise, a million e-mails, plus meetings all day. But I can't resist. I come up with another reason to type him a note:
"Gary,
Approving cover for new book. Check out the attached pdf. Do you think the orange is too light? It makes me want to eat a Creamcicle. Let me know your thoughts.
Gigi"
No "love." No "honey." Now he'll know I know he has overreacted. I press send and immediately experience e-mailer's remorse. I didn't need to lower myself to his level. What was I thinking? He's probably freaking out over an iPhone crisis or maybe he's working in the PET scan lab, or maybe he's laying near death in a hospital emergency room somewhere... I'm about to pick up the phone to make sure he's okay when "bing," here comes another e-mail. I write a quick response and hear five more bings. I answer a few more as the familiar bombardment of e-mails both comforts and distracts me. I feel an uncontrollable urge to find out what each new e-mail is about. It could be Gary groveling for forgiveness, a new book offer, Stockholm calling about the Nobel Prize, or yet another opportunity to make millions if I would only give up my social security number to some stranger across the globe.
I look back at my last e-mail to Gary and feel a twinge of guilt. Maybe I was too hard on him. I think what's really bothering me is that we're so used to connecting with each other whenever we want, and then, all of a sudden today, I'm cut off. I remember the days before the onslaught of technology, when people didn't communicate with each other instantly from moment to moment. We somehow managed to get by with busy signals, snail mail, and actually talking in person. Now we use e-mail and texting not just to get our work done, but to stay in touch with each other at all times, throughout the day. I've gotten so used to it that I almost panic when my server goes down. I feel like I'm stranded on a desert island . . . with no BlackBerry.
Although it's easy to knock out quick e-mails, they still can't convey the subtleties of direct social contact, the non-verbal cues, body language and facial expressions. "Love, Honey" takes care of that for Gary and me. It adds the smile and sometimes even the kiss. Could it be that without "Love, Honey" we are lost in a world of strangers e-mailing their mundane needs? I suddenly come to my senses and write him another quick e-mail:
"Hi Honey,
I'm sorry I was so short in my last note. I love you, but where the hell are you?
LOVE,
HONEY!"
The note was to the point. Okay, so I let some of my frustration spill out, but Gary can take it.
Nothing. Another freaking hour of work and still no response from him. So what if I shouldn't have used ALL CAPS at the end. I know it comes off as if I'm shouting and hostile. Okay, maybe now I'm the one who is overreacting. Before I dash off to my 1:30 lunch, I try one more time.
"Hi Honey,
Sorry about the silly notes. I'm crazy with pressure today.
Love, Honey"
At lunch, my friend notices I'm preoccupied. "Are you going to eat your food or stare at your phone?" I apologize and notice several other people in the restaurant fiddling with their PDAs. I begin to realize why I've felt this ridiculous panic all day. Is it possible that our habitual BlackBerry behavior has created yet another unnecessary opportunity to be misunderstood and to feel insecure in love? Before I can take a bite of my sandwich, my BlackBerry starts to vibrate with a new message. As I read the e-mail, I recalled the shaggy brown hair and sweet smile of my soul mate. Maybe I would stop and buy a little something special to wear tonight.
"Hi Honey,
Sounds like you're having a rough day. I just spent the morning lecturing to a couple hundred neurologists. Good times. Sorry I forgot my iPhone at the office.
Love,
Honey"
Gigi Vorgan is co-author with Dr. Gary Small of "iBrain: Surviving the Technological Alteration of the Modern Mind" (HarperCollins, October, 2008) as well as several other books. Visit his site for more information.
