Steamboat Pilot & Today

Joanne Palmer

Joanne Palmer's Life in the 'Boat column appears Wednesdays in the Steamboat Today. Email her at jpalmer@springsips.com

Find more columns by Palmer here.

He was everything I wanted. From the moment we met, I was smitten. As soon as my fingertips brushed against him I was head over heels. He wasn't handsome, and he certainly wasn't rich. But he had other qualities. He was a communicator. We were simpatico from the start. Talking was effortless; it went on for days. He wanted to know everything about me: where I was born, my mother's maiden name, where I went to school - everything! We held nothing back. There were no secrets. What a listener he was! Sleepless nights, he was there. Bad day at work, he was there. Just listening. Never judging. Never interrupting.

Every cliche was our cliche. Every song, our song. Every sunrise, rainbow, moonbeam was ours, all ours.

Like most couples, we had pet names for each other. "Honey" or 'Scoober" were not our style. I cannot write what we called each other : they were too special to reveal in print. To add to the intrigue, he took it one step further and insisted on a password. Whenever we spoke, he asked for our password. I thought it was sweet. Touching, even.

He had friends, lots of them. They spoke a secret language, "Http" something-or-other. I never understood or could learn it, but it didn't bother me. We had our own language. Yes, the language of love.

He thrilled to my touch. All I had to do to turn him on was touch him, and he would begin to hum. Thoughts of him took over completely. His initials, E.M. were on my mind, all day, every day.

I thought I'd been in love before. I'd suffered through relationships with cads, cowards and commitment-phobes, but when E.M. came along, I realized it had all been a trifle, a passing fancy. Nothing more. Thoughts of E.M. consumed me. He was my first thought in the morning - my last at night.

I was completely and totally lovesick. I spent all my time with him. I drew hearts with our initials inside. E.M and J.P. I imagined a future for myself as Mrs. Mail.

And then, the unthinkable happened.

He disappeared.

Vanished.

Not even a good-bye. A farewell kiss.

There was no contact. I railed at the gods who would take my beloved away from me. I couldn't eat or sleep. I tried again and again to connect with him to no avail. I did everything. I lit a candle. I considered a sacrifice. I cried out our secret love password.

At last, when I could think of nothing else, I called my Internet Service Provider.

"I'm lost without him," I wailed. "I can't go on. He knows everything about me. He holds all my history, my secrets.

They asked all sorts of questions: Had there been contact with a stranger? Something foreign?

And then they delivered the bad news. Not in person, but over the phone:

A virus.

"Is it deadly?" "Contagious?" I whispered.

They spoke about my beloved, as if he was an inanimate object, a mere machine. They suggested running an anti-virus program : into something called his system.

More questions: Did I have a backup? A Zip drive?

Of course not! Didn't they get it? What we shared was personal, intimate.

What was to become of us? Did I have to start over with some phony baloney whiz-bang replacement?

An I-Phone?

Blackberry?

Not me. I am loyal. True blue.

I bought the anti-virus. I coaxed my true love back to health.

We were reunited.

We were one.