"Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me want to buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly-sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address."
You've Got Mail (1998)
I am checking my inbox while watching You've Got Mail. I feel perverse and expectant as if Nora Ephron will posthumously write an updated version to emphasize the metaphysical cliché of my life poorly imitating her art grossly imitating the lives of adults I have fantasized about in nostalgia for a New York long gone. The New York minute that didn't tick off character counts or tag your location or quantify how accessible you are by a search engine and a number of hearts and thumbs-up icons, a number that represents how much other people should invest in you and your life: a stock market that is live reporting the news of your climbs and crashes as long as you are online. It is a risk to invest in what you do not know; it is obvious to avoid what is cheap because it is not performing well; if all your shares are higher than ever you should play it safe and cash out. How do you know the worth of what you have when it doesn't come in a currency you can use for transactions? How utopian really is a gift economy that uses buy low, sell high as the model for relationships? If we are always trading up by swiping left or right, at some point my existence is a gamble you are willing to bet or forget for the sake of your own fortune. The cure for Option Paralysis is not to get out of New York but to get offline.