An E-mail

I still haven't gone to bed after my last post, so I decided to be productive and catch up on e-mails. This is quite a task, as many people often seek my counsel, or just want to be kept up to date with the details of my insanely entertaining life. 


So when I sat down to write Carinne an e-mail, here's what I produced. I share it with you because it has some lessons that we could all learn from, and because it gives a brilliant insight into the man who penned it. 


I began the e-mail with a few simple, yet brilliant introductory paragraphs. 


Then, this followed:


"...


I'm not sure mine will be that eclectic [nice word choice, Ed], but it will be long. And you know what they always say: if you can't write an eclectic e-mail, at least write a long one. 

I saw your rock climbing pictures. Looked beautiful. The only thing that would have made it cooler is if you'd discovered a Civil War ironclad submarine full of gold during the hike. You probably won't remember, but that's the plot to Sahara - that movie you made me watch with you starring Matthew McConaughey. You of course, fell asleep during it, so I ended up turning it off because during the entire thirty minutes I watched it, I found no reason to keep it on. You should know, however, that I've decided that Matthew McConaughey is annoyingly good-looking, and so is Ryan Gosling. When you think about it, they're pretty selfish guys, actually. There are kids starving in Africa and they're spending that much time on themselves, trying to look good? They could be using their time to generate awareness, to raise money for those poor kids, but instead, they spend their days tanning and trimming their facial hair and getting photos taken of them looking pensively into a camera. Everybody needs to grow up, and it starts with them.  

Do you see what I just did there? I wrote six lines that really added nothing to the e-mail. They didn't really explain how I've been doing and they didn't really offer much of an opinion about what you've been up to [other than that the rock climbing looked beautiful, but you already knew that]. All I did was talk about two good-looking male celebrities, who should really have no bearing on this conversation whatsoever. But that, my dear, is how you write a long e-mail. And why do you need to write a long e-mail? you might ask. Well [besides the reason I gave you earlier: if you can't write an eclectic e-mail, at least write a long one], because when you send somebody a long e-mail, they assume you spent a long time writing it and therefore that you care about them -- after all, you sat down and dedicated a all this time just to share your words, your thoughts with them. What they don't realize is that often the shortest e-mails are the most heartfelt, because you sat at the computer and couldn't find anything to say except the core of your heart, so you just shared a few lines, which are the only ones really worth reading anyways. But if you couldn't already tell, you're getting the long version this time. 

And did you see what I just did there? That's close to eight lines, explaining how I added six lines. Pure genius I tell you. Pure genius. 

So you're still in Thailand, huh? Do they speak Engrish over there? Does everybody look like Confucius? 

But back to you. Rock climbing doesn't sound that fun, to be honest. People have always told me I'd love things like scuba diving and rock climbing, but activities that bring you face-to-face with the terror of death don't appeal to me that much. And after seeing 127 Hours, I decided that I'm never rock-climbing. Is it logical to rule out an activity because of an extreme case I saw in a movie once? Absolutely not. But my life has been fine so far without any extensive rock climbing and scuba diving, and I think it'll be just fine without it. I of course plan on walking trails and backpacking up hills and many other outdoorsy things before I die, but rock-climbing and scuba diving, I'll pass. Because the only times you really ever hear about rock-climbing and scuba diving is when someone dies, and I feel like I hear those stories often enough to make me believe that pretty much everybody who partakes in them dies at some point or another. 

Now sky-diving, that's a different matter. I want to do it, but only if I could jump by myself, which of course you can't do on your first jump, so I'm actually probably never going to sky dive, though I desperately want to. First of all, the thought of a guy strapped behind me as we fall through the air is just gay. If there was a woman instructor, this would help, but I don't think women are allowed to be sky-diving instructors/guides, or whatever you call people who jump out of airplanes strapped to other people [besides morons]. And secondly, having someone else pull the cord/tell you when to pull the cord -- that takes the fun out of it. That would be like someone giving you a sweet car, but then every single time you drove, there was a driving instructor in the front seat who told you when to put on your indicator, when to brake, when to accelerate. I'd sign a waiver. I'd do whatever was needed to ensure that when I leapt out of the plane it was just me, some sweet skydiving outfit, and a parachute. [And a watch. I think those skydiving instructors/guides always wear big watches... And goggles. They always have dumb looking goggles, but I'd wear those too, just to look the part.] Because then if I landed, I'd have actually accomplished something. It would be me that had survived. I pulled the cord, I steered my way to safety. I would have cheated death. Not some expert who does it every day. At some point, people need to take the training wheels off their life and start jumping out of planes by themselves. 

There once was a girl named Carinne,

Who lived a life full of sin. 

She wore flannel outfits,

never shaved her armpits,

And ate cockroaches by the bin. 

Bet you weren't expecting a personalized limerick, were you? But you got one. 

This seems as good a time as any to lecture you about expectations, Carinne. You see, being two years older than you, I feel reasonably qualified to inform you about life. I know what lies ahead, and you -- so young, so naive -- you have no idea. How could you? You're like a worker bee, who's out for honey one day and stumbles upon a beautiful flower. I'm a more experienced worker bee -- the queen trusts me more -- and I look at the flower along with you, and then we both smile, and then I look at you and tell you about expectations. Anyways, you shouldn't expect things, Carinne. Notice how I put that in italics. Actually, I didn't put "that" in italics. I put "expect" in italics. I wrote: expect. Notice how the italics further emphasize what I'm trying to say. Italics are important, Carinne. Far too many people don't say what they mean. They don't put enough weight in their words. Notice how heavy the word "weight" feels when it's italicized. 


Take these two sentences for instance: 

Carinne loved jellybeans. 

Carinne loved jellybeans. 

The first Carinne, well, she loves jellybeans, and that's good and dandy, but the second Carinne, man, she loves jellybeans. She wakes up, and the thought of a good bag of jellybeans, that just puts a smile on her face. I really get a feeling about how much she loves jellybeans. I can picture her happiness, and her love seems much more enthusiastic, much more genuine. I see giving her a bag of jellybeans and her face just lighting up, like I really made her day by giving her a bag of jellybeans. The first Carinne? I give her the same bag, she might smile, say thank you and even give me a half-assed hug, but it won't be anything like the second one, and odds are, I probably won't buy her another bag. And the craziest thing about it all? They're both the same sentence. One used italics, the other played by the rules. And what do they always say about playing by the rules? That you should do it, but not always.

I googled Matthew McConaughey earlier to figure out how to spell his name and I left the window open while I typed this e-mail. One of the first images that pops up on google is him staring at the camera with a creepy smile. So for the last twenty minutes, Matthew McConaughey has been creepily staring at me, and now I'm unsettled. I just closed google, and now he's gone. I don't miss him.

By now you're probably realizing this is the literary equivalent to a prank call. I started this with no real purpose in mind. I had nothing really that I wanted to share with you that I hadn't already shared. 

I'm still debt free. I leave for Florida on Tuesday, and I'll be there for a week to watch Ryan compete in the Ironman this Saturday. 

Maybe I should have said that at the beginning. But then again, we could spend our life wondering maybe... Maybe I should have asked if he was eighteen... Maybe I should have worn underpants today... Maybe I should stop spending my weekends looking for buried Civil War ironclad submarines full of chests with gold... 

Notice the italics?

-Ed