While I was away

Will the out-of-office emails ever stop?

Last week, in a well-intended effort to appear professional, I sat down at my computer and created an automated email message explaining that I’d be “out of town and unable to check messages until July 7.” A few minutes later, just as I was about to close my laptop, a friend emailed to tell me he received seven copies of my auto-response. Cursing, I navigated back to my email account and removed the auto-response rule, figuring it must have been a glitch.

It wasn’t. A few minutes into my seven-hour drive toward the blank emptiness of central Idaho, I picked up my phone and checked emails again to find my inbox full. Hundreds of automated responses triggered by my automated response, politely explaining that they, too, would be away and back again. So many people gone. What a coincidence. One email came from a respected author and filmmaker with whom I’d exchanged some correspondence in April. He wrote “what is this? nine emails in the past few minutes??!” Near Colfax, I called my friend Stacy.

“Have you gotten any emails from me today?” I asked.

“Twelve,” she said. “Oh, there’s one more. Thirteen.”

Greetings, everyone who emailed me in 2019.

As a kid, I avoided unnecessary attention. I strived to claim only the attention I needed and nothing more. A small voice. Few needs. Quiet. Still. Obedient. Sometimes I got so good at avoiding attention, I became almost invisible. My mom forgot me at piano lessons. Teachers didn't call on me. Partners didn't pick me. My best friend made up exclusive clubs that I was not invited to join. Conversations worked their way around me. I remember in high school sitting in the middle of a long bench of girls, all engaged in conversation with someone else. I gnawed on my peanut-butter smeared rice cake and listened to myself chew, the quiet center of a conversation storm.

When attention was granted by ritual (like a birthday party) or reward (like winning a swim race), I was able to bear it for as long as a photo op. But when attention was granted for other reasons (for being tall, for making a cute mistake, for mispronouncing a word), I reddened and looked down. There’s nothing I hate more than undeserved attention: the social eye looking me up and down, scrolling for something of interest, finding me wanting.

I’d rather control the lens, show the best of myself, and disappear again.

Me, buckling under the pressure to blow out the candles.

As we neared Riggins, the last outpost of cellular service, I again confirmed that the auto-responses continued gushing out of my email supply line. There was nothing more to do but cross my fingers and hope they’d peter out by the time I returned on Saturday.

Alas, they did not. I don’t know what magic buttons I pushed to create this particular diabolical out-of-office rule, but Google continues to follow it to a tee. It appears to be mining my history, announcing my travel plans to anyone who has ever sent me an email in the history of email. At the time of writing, it has announced my travel schedule to everyone who emailed me in 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021, and 2020. Today, it is chipping away at 2019.

Scrolling through the auto-responses and failed deliveries that flood my mailbox every morning, my life is passing before my eyes. Friends I haven’t seen in years are resurfacing. Old plans are bubbling up. Transactions float by like flotsam. There was the time we installed solar panels and the year we ordered dahlias. I once participated in a weekly choir and took voice lessons. I met Lee and canoed the river with her. I edited essays and worked on my thesis. The pandemic cancelled school. George Floyd was murdered. We washed mail and waited for vaccines, sewed our own masks. I corresponded with beleaguered teachers, offering gratitude and encouragement. Fires raged through Australia, California, Oregon, Washington, and Idaho. I found a counselor, quit the gym, and attended a Zoom yoga class.

Every day, the emails make my life more visible. Anything but small.

Even a life in emails can astonish the beholder.

People have been kind. Most recipients delete my daily emails with good-natured aplomb (or private frustration). Some of have suggested a possible virus or hostile takeover, which is sweet because it assumes that I could not possibly be so daft as to bring this upon myself. And some have joined in playful banter, responding to my out-of-office announcement with memories and comments. What joy to remember the mundane details of a life well-lived. Thank you.

Still, I regret the error. It makes my stomach turn to imagine people seeing my name pop up in their inbox again and again with nothing new to say. I worry someone might boil with rage and delete me from their lives. But there are worse mistakes. There are bigger problems.

If errors are teachers, then this one is teaching me to bear out my shortcomings. To stand in the spotlight of attention for as long as it takes to get everyone’s attention, several times a day, and bow graciously and unapologetically. Hello, it’s me.

Me again.

Also me.

Here I am.

I was gone.

Sorry I missed you.

Now I’m back.

Still here.

Get used to it.