I've got mail

I've always slightly yearned to be one of those people whose deep inner contentment means they don't appear to need the outside world so much, who don't seem to care when they are contacted - who don't flinch when the phone rings, get a glimmer of excitement when the doorbell goes or a handwritten letter lands on the mat, whose hearts don't leap when they see a smattering of new messages in their email inbox.

Admittedly, I think I've managed to keep things in perspective slightly more than my parents, who leap up as though electrocuted when their landline jingles and answer it with alacrity whether it coincides with their first mouthful of dinner or goes off an hour after they've gone to sleep. Unlike them, I can manage to resist my mobile when it goes at an inconvenient moment - but I won't pretend that, deep down, I am not still quietly pleased that someone wants to get in touch with me - and I doubt that will ever change. I would even venture to hope that it's a pretty natural reaction.

What may be less normal, however, is my irritating habit of getting excited when I receive an email that I sent myself miliseconds earlier. If, for example, I find something of interest online at home, I will write myself an email reminder to look at the link the next day. As I press 'Send', I know for certain that, through the wonders of modern technology, my account will now show that I have a new message, and that it will be from me. But sure as eggs is eggs, when I see the new, bold line in my inbox, my heart flutters like a that of a romantic American teenager in the month before prom - and sinks like a Mafia victim in the Hudson when I confirm that the sender is myself. No matter how much I prepare myself for that inevitable instant of disappointment, it still hits. And then, immediately afterwards, hits the not-unfamiliar sensation that I am, despite my plethora of unarguable virtues and immense talents, sometimes a bit of a moron. But I know you love me nonetheless and that makes it all bearable.