Forgive me, Farrah.
It was an injustice that the link to your name went elsewhere and did not connect to your iconic photograph. My amateur error reveals the newness of this blog. And my age.
You see, when I was in high school there wasn’t Facebook. There was Friendster. Ok, fine. The internet didn’t exist. We had goddamn Friendship bracelets. We wore them in the shower until they begun to smell moldy. Farrah, you deserve better. And I promise you, I will learn. Watch this: #hashtag (Yeah, move over Zuck).
This got me thinking about high school and how we communicated. We passed notes. How we signed them at the end - a smiley face? a daisy? an anarchy sign? Those were our Profiles.
Notes have been replaced by texts ‘n tweets. But can anything really replace a Thank You card? I still keep the ones I received when I was interviewing tech. designers at Juicy Couture. My appreciation for TY cards could have gone in a completely opposite direction. Especially when the handwritten note veiled the truth: the enforcer behind it.
* readers: you are about to unwillingly slip into what could be a therapy session. close this tab or minimize it at the very least.
My mother made me write a Thank You card to my prom date. Yep. An actual Thank You card. To a prom date. Im talking about you, Douglas. When you’re scaling impossible heights in Alaska, teaching troubled youth how to survive in the desert on twigs and urine or diving out of helicopters to ski (ski lifts can be sooo pedestrian), don’t you look back fondly at said TY card and think “what a lovely gesture”? Because thats what Dr. Feinberg and I have decided.