A love letter, a two-bit airport encounter, half a bottle of Chanel's Chance and 3/4ths of a dream that ends in a text that says "Goodbye"

A love letter, a two-bit airport encounter, half a bottle of Chanel's Chance and 3/4ths of a dream that ends in a text that says "Goodbye".

Love letters. Seemingly cliche things circa pre-90's before the advent of the email, the facebook, the text, the technological age of "don't-do-it-yourself". However, as has come to my attention, this is a prehistoric (as in pre-Billy Gates) ritual that is still practiced by a small group of people....who like pens, papers and postage. Evolved enough to write, but not enough to type. It is a well known fact that pressing buttons says I Love You more than getting your fingers dirty with ink (blegh!). I Love You is best left to computers. They know what they're doing. I mean, I trust them with my banking information, my google-Britney addiction and my illegal downloading activity (if it saves me from jail....). Why make a mix-tape when you can make an mp3 filled USB stick with hundreds of songs? Advanced, huh? I thought so. Don't write me a love letter, type me one. Don't give me a real hug, poke me on facebook (it turns me on more anyway). And don't you dare tell me you want to hook up unless you're going to send me at least 5 pre-interest texts, followed by 2 weeks of texting banter, slowly moving into the "do you want to go out?" text and ending with the I Love You text. It makes me feel better when I know you've engaged technology to show your emotions. Hard drive to hard drive.....you are my soul mate. (Look for my emails!)

Aiports are not relationship breeding grounds. As I have stated above, real encounters are extinct in the age of Lavalife, Match.com and 16 hour work days with co-workers that get cuter the more inter-office email you receive from them (Joey is especially hot in emoticon). Therefore, having met a guy at an airport I am forced to say that I had a weak moment. I had a moment where I believed. Believed in what, you may ask? In the normalcy of having a face-to-face encounter of pure impetuous, fated nature with a friend of a friend who lives my parallel penis life. And how do we facilitate more face-to-face interaction? By sending oh-so-lovely texts discussing how we feel about, well, about nothing. It is the vapidness, and word limit, of texting that has left me both empty and surprised. Empty, because there is no depth to using your thumb to express interest, and surprised because I have one hell of an efficient right thumb. And through the text wars I have learned texting etiquette I didn't even know existed.

1) There is a texting back time limit....and it's 5 minutes, people. (midgets stealing your phone, fires and death are the only outs)
2) To end the texting war you must explicitly use a parting line....example, "Okay, I'm heading to bed now." or "I'll talk to you later." or, the most popular, "Peace Out."
3) To text is to banter. Do not text in monotone, monosyllables or any other boring typing style. If I am using my extremities to be funny you better be using yours to be funny back.

Wearing Chanel's Chance is not like wearing a Superman cape. You are not invincible. You may smell good, but you cannot leap tall buildings in a single bound. Having said that, you can make the kind of impression that has men going from stoic to quiet. It's a step up thanks to the makers of Chance. Oh Chanel, is there nothing you can't do?

I end this blog with a text..........Goodbye.