Send Me a Postcard, Darling

Call me a Luddite, but e-mails don’t hold a candle to getting hand-written correspondence. Yesterday I came home to two postcards–one with just one line. “Sheila, I found this in a car and I thought of you.” It was a photo from 1975, a girl in a muted pink tank top, with rounded edges. Another came from Palm Springs, from two friends saying thanks for the tips on where to go (they loved Melvyn’s and Cheeky’s). It made my day. It was also a refreshing change from the usual computer-generated drab in my mailbox.

Compared to an e-mail, sending a postcard is a time-consuming pain in the ass. But somehow taking the time and care to write a postcard or listen to a record, or cook dinner, or make a cup of tea (tea leaves, stove-top kettle) oddly ends up being so much more satisfying than anything quick n’ easy. Somehow these “inconveniences” or chores have become the anti-thesis to the non-stop, multi-tasking, not-enough-time-in-the-day, time-is-money, do-it-faster, progress! progress! progress! messages that bombard modern living. Convenience was meant to give us more time for leisure. Instead we have even less time, less vacation days, more work. So to hell with convenience! It’s a myth! 

And thanks to computers, the novelty of writing and receiving postcards has only enhanced its pleasure. I’ve just dug out a shoe-box worth of postcards I’ve collected over the years. Send me your address and I’ll send you a postcard. sheila (at) chachacharming (dot) com. 

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