Datebook: Monday, January 7th ~ 2008
Today I realized I have a problem.
I’m not going to go as far as call it an addiction.
Other would disagree, I know, especially those who have tried to wean me away and offer inferior substitutions. My epiphany of comprehension came at six am when I realized that my daughter had not only borrowed my car for the week while hers is being serviced, but that I had left my bag on the back seat. The bag that houses my DayRunner.
When I say DayRunner, picture rich, burgundy, Corinthian leather divided by well-used tabs that denote a monthly calendar, a weekly calendar, notes, contacts, and memos. Imagine the plastic sleeves that hold business cards, a fifth grade book mark drawn by my son eight years ago, a note from my then five-year old daughter using phonetic stretch spelling to express how happy she was that the “pillgrams ate terkey wth the Neightves se we culd be a happy famly”. Envision an envelope that holds every ticket stub since 1984—these range from Spamelot to Toby Keith to a Ravens-Steeler game.
This is the book of life to me.
I have all of my appointments on the monthly sheets and all of my notes and comments on the weekly pages.
I know what you’re thinking.
Many people have moved into the current era and have Trios, Blackberries, or one of the other electronic devices that require the user to record data by using an enlarged toothpick-like instrument. The disciples of this mode would argue that these compact instruments hold limitless information in a neat and easily accessible manner.
I’ll concede this point although this style is no more for me than wearing translucent plastic platform heels. I need to be able to “flip” and write in pencil, pen or marker. I need to highlight with a color that stands out, not with a slightly lighter shade of gray; I need to be able to see the boldness of Lemon Yellow or Prom Pink.
So today I am without my planner. I do not have access to my username and passwords for approximately 50 on-line sites that range from my United air miles to Shop Bop to my FSU account. I cannot look back to the summer to see the total of my Lake Placid Golden Arrow hotel bill or the date I had my hair colored, ah, infused with highlights, or how many core strengthening sessions my daughter had with her trainer in October.
To be sure, there will be some who might gloat at my dependence on an archaic method of record keeping. They might try to compare my little notebook as the equivalent of a slide rule against the power of a calculator but I would beg to differ.
All of the electronic data recording devices are missing the power and sensation of holding an artifact in your hand. There is something uplifting about holding an original document and savoring the meaning and complexities of the written word. As opposed to a typed word, or, to be more specific, a stylused word.
My daughter arrived at her apartment to discover my bag of bullion in the back of her car and called to utter the words I dreaded.
“UH-OH, I have your book.”
Since I had already made the discovery and practiced saying the words without much of an inflection in my voice, she was almost convinced.
“That’s okay. I don’t really need it”. Perhaps she heard the paper bag I had been breathing into crinkle over the phone.
“Mom, I can drive it back home or meet you half-way.”
“No, don’t be silly. I can wait until this week-end. It’s only six days.”
“I could Fed-Ex it to you tomorrow and you would have it Wednesday.”
I consider this for a moment and then discard the idea. Ever since the movie “Castaway” I have not been too sure that every package makes it to its destination.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait.” I hoped she thought the cracking in my voice was just from the portable phone.
“Well…if you’re sure.”
“It will be fine, it will be okay…” I repeat this as a mantra to myself and to her and then I ask her for one favor. “Would you please take it inside and then mark the days off each day—use a dark blue marker, and mark left to right—one line.”
She hesitates for only a moment and then says, “Sure, no problem” and I know I have given her fodder for the zamboni time the next day.
I would make a note of that in my DayRunner if I had it in hand.
Mombo
I’m not going to go as far as call it an addiction.
Other would disagree, I know, especially those who have tried to wean me away and offer inferior substitutions. My epiphany of comprehension came at six am when I realized that my daughter had not only borrowed my car for the week while hers is being serviced, but that I had left my bag on the back seat. The bag that houses my DayRunner.
When I say DayRunner, picture rich, burgundy, Corinthian leather divided by well-used tabs that denote a monthly calendar, a weekly calendar, notes, contacts, and memos. Imagine the plastic sleeves that hold business cards, a fifth grade book mark drawn by my son eight years ago, a note from my then five-year old daughter using phonetic stretch spelling to express how happy she was that the “pillgrams ate terkey wth the Neightves se we culd be a happy famly”. Envision an envelope that holds every ticket stub since 1984—these range from Spamelot to Toby Keith to a Ravens-Steeler game.
This is the book of life to me.
I have all of my appointments on the monthly sheets and all of my notes and comments on the weekly pages.
I know what you’re thinking.
Many people have moved into the current era and have Trios, Blackberries, or one of the other electronic devices that require the user to record data by using an enlarged toothpick-like instrument. The disciples of this mode would argue that these compact instruments hold limitless information in a neat and easily accessible manner.
I’ll concede this point although this style is no more for me than wearing translucent plastic platform heels. I need to be able to “flip” and write in pencil, pen or marker. I need to highlight with a color that stands out, not with a slightly lighter shade of gray; I need to be able to see the boldness of Lemon Yellow or Prom Pink.
So today I am without my planner. I do not have access to my username and passwords for approximately 50 on-line sites that range from my United air miles to Shop Bop to my FSU account. I cannot look back to the summer to see the total of my Lake Placid Golden Arrow hotel bill or the date I had my hair colored, ah, infused with highlights, or how many core strengthening sessions my daughter had with her trainer in October.
To be sure, there will be some who might gloat at my dependence on an archaic method of record keeping. They might try to compare my little notebook as the equivalent of a slide rule against the power of a calculator but I would beg to differ.
All of the electronic data recording devices are missing the power and sensation of holding an artifact in your hand. There is something uplifting about holding an original document and savoring the meaning and complexities of the written word. As opposed to a typed word, or, to be more specific, a stylused word.
My daughter arrived at her apartment to discover my bag of bullion in the back of her car and called to utter the words I dreaded.
“UH-OH, I have your book.”
Since I had already made the discovery and practiced saying the words without much of an inflection in my voice, she was almost convinced.
“That’s okay. I don’t really need it”. Perhaps she heard the paper bag I had been breathing into crinkle over the phone.
“Mom, I can drive it back home or meet you half-way.”
“No, don’t be silly. I can wait until this week-end. It’s only six days.”
“I could Fed-Ex it to you tomorrow and you would have it Wednesday.”
I consider this for a moment and then discard the idea. Ever since the movie “Castaway” I have not been too sure that every package makes it to its destination.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just wait.” I hoped she thought the cracking in my voice was just from the portable phone.
“Well…if you’re sure.”
“It will be fine, it will be okay…” I repeat this as a mantra to myself and to her and then I ask her for one favor. “Would you please take it inside and then mark the days off each day—use a dark blue marker, and mark left to right—one line.”
She hesitates for only a moment and then says, “Sure, no problem” and I know I have given her fodder for the zamboni time the next day.
I would make a note of that in my DayRunner if I had it in hand.
Mombo
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