I've been really busy at work the past few weeks and my unread email count is slowly mounting. The counter is constantly staring at me: a bolded number book-ended by smug little parentheses. He's propped himself up there, next to the Inbox label, ensuring he's visible from all angles.
Lately my counter has been undergoing quite a growth spurt and like any teenager in similar position, he is becoming more and more annoying. Most of the time he just sits there, slackjawed and unimpressed and constantly staring at me with disapproval.
He's saying: "You're never going to get all this done by Saturday" and "Do you realise how many things you need to do?" and "I'm not sure you've got your priorities right".
Sometimes I look away for a short while, then look back only to realise that he's grown another couple of inches without warning.
And I'm thinking: "Oh God ... where do I start?" and "I'm never going to get all this done by Saturday." and "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!".
He knows that I know that he knows what I'm thinking. And it's not helping matters.
There are some people who don't seem to be concerned about this. Their unread counters can hits the thousands, yet they seem to trot along just fine with not a care in the world. I've met these people. I'ved worked with some of them. Sometimes when I'm looking over their shoulder at their screen and they don't even attempt to cover up the counter with their hand, or a plant. Impressive insouciance. Maybe there is a breaking point with the unread email counter.
However, for me, the knowledge of unread email creates a dry sense of unease. It lives with me permanently, about halfway down my throat. Behind the oesophagus. Maybe though, just maybe, once the counter reaches a certain number the dam walls burst and we all stop worrying about getting wet. Or maybe some of these people never even worried in the first place.
I don't think so. I don't think they are happy or unconcerned at all. These are the same people who have 700 Facebook friends. It all seems great on the surface, so wonderful and chirpy and social and busybusybusy. But back at home, late at night, lying in bed, alone with their own thoughts, they privately worry whether they have any real friends at all. Surely there is nothing more lonely than having 700 Facebook friends.
Back to me.
This morning at about 10am I was in a multitasking frenzy - emails, conference calls, document reviews, PowerPoint presentation updates. All these little tribulations that take up such a large chunk of my working life. Oh, what a life. I can't wait until I'm about 90 years old, looking back on my life at all the things I've done with it. All the PowerPoint. All the email. These will not be the reflections of Mandela.
At about 10:15am I was looking for a recent email I had already read (take that, counter) but hadn't yet replied to (OK I take it back). I couldn't find this particular. I looked for another. I couldn't find it either. Then I looked up at the unread email counter and it had halved. Where did everything go?
A few checks and searches later and I realised that I had accidentally deleted about half of all my emails. A few more checks and I knew they weren't coming back. I didn't know how or why it happened but they were gone. I just stared blankly at the screen, incredulous and gobsmacked. I thought about all the things these emails represented - I had such a catalogue of things which were not yet done ... so much to reply to ... to update ... the calendar invitations to accept ... general reading to keep myself abreast of what's going on ... the wording reviews I had promised ... the emails I read and roll my eyes through ... the ones about evil Chinese people in San Francisco. Midway through all of my gurning at the screen, an overwhelming feeling crept up on me and circled for a while and moved over me before then descending down to engulf me. It pinned me into position and stayed there for a while. It released me to get on with my work, but I could still feel the lingering after-effects and I laboured through the remaining half of my workload. I don't know what it was but I think it was joy.
