So, sorry. The rest of you get plain old store bought cards, just like Hallmark intended. If I don't get the cards out this week they won't arrive in time for Christmas, or rather they won't arrive in time to sit on your mantelpiece or shelf making a nice display and looking all festive. This is the only time of year I enjoy getting mail. The rest of the time it's always bills or catalogs or requests for donations. Lord knows no one writes letters anymore.

I have boxes and boxes full of correspondence from 1975-1995. That's the year I got an email address and everyone stopped writing to me the old fashioned way. It's sad, really. I miss the thrill of getting mail with exotic stamps from all over the world, the anticipation of what was inside (news, gossip, declarations of love, arguments, clippings) as I carefully slit open the envelopes. I bought dozens of wafer thin blue airmail envelopes in case I spoiled my letters or changed my mind about what I was writing. No backspacing, no erasing, everything in pen. You had to really think about what you were writing. And oh, the misunderstandings and crossing of comments, always separated by six to ten days each way for letters to foreign countries.

Writing letters was an early habit. I always had pen pals as a kid, usually several at a time. I regularly wrote to pop stars and actors asking for an autograph and telling them how much I enjoyed their shows. I had distinctive, attractive handwriting which I was immensely proud of. I worked on it. I used to practice the swoopiness of my g's and y's, puzzle over how to make an "r" look nice, switch between cursive and printing until it melded together into a unique lettering style. I remember when I decided to change the way I made my "g," to make it look like a figure eight instead of a careful circle and curly tail.

I never used heart or flower shapes to dot my i's, but when I was 13 I did go through a phase of making them fat little circles. It's a girl thing.

Stationary was very important. The feel of the paper under my hand was so sensual. And I had to have the right kind of pen. I hated anything with a fine point. Bic Medium in blue was my favorite, though black had a certain appeal. The perfect combination of pen and paper could send me into a dream state, lost in the graphic design of each letter, finding deep satisfaction in a page with the proper amount of white space.

But now I send email instead of writing letters. I'm as lazy as anyone else, and the instant gratification is so satisfying. Writing an in-class essay hurts my hand after 10 minutes; after 20 it cramps up and I have to stop, so I have a built in timer for finishing. I'm out of practice with the physical act of writing. I type 80 words a minute; I have backspace and spell checking; I can have a conversation with only minutes of lag instead of weeks. Why would I write longhand anymore?

Christmas cards are different. They're a labor of love, just like letters used to be. Unfortunately, I didn't start early enough and now? Now I don't have time. All I can do is hope people think of me thinking of them while I wrote out their names and addresses in my distinctive handwriting, a legacy of the days when I had time enough to write.

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