Right now, I’m procrastinating on addressing our wedding invitations. For those of you unaware (and if you’re unaware, you’re likely not invited, soo…sorry), Matt and I are getting married this May. There are plenty of things I could talk about related to the wedding, but I find the invitations to be worth a writing prompt.
When was the last time you used cursive? When I asked Matt this question he said that, when he is trying to clear his mind at work, he will write the alphabet in cursive to distract himself. I looked up from my hand cramp to tell him he was weird. Other than Matt (and maybe my mom….) I seriously doubt that many people I know personally use cursive regularly.
We didn’t have to adhere to this handwritten invitations tradition; in fact, for our Save-the-Dates, Matt was singlehandedly in charge of printing addresses onto the envelopes to mail out. He even excitedly picked out the font and stamps while I laid on the couch on my laptop going “Sure, honey, looks good.” But his willingness to be in charge of the Save-the-Dates made me all the more convinced that I should perform my womanly duties of handwriting our actual invitations.
These days I’m on the computer most of my waking hours. I have stretches that I do to help with my typing-related injuries. But yesterday, as I huddled over opalescent white pearl envelopes angled with the bottom left corner facing me, I realized I was working muscles that I’ve not really utilized since middle school–the last time I was forced to use cursive.
It’s a strange feeling to realize that your hand is out of shape. I’m not surprised to find other parts of me out of shape (ok that’s a lie too, I’m consistently surprised that I don’t have the same athletic stamina I did five years ago), but my hand? How can my hand be out of shape?
With some states (e.g. Indiana) no longer including cursive as part of their public school curriculum, I’m beginning to wonder what wedding invitations and thank-you notes will look like twenty years from now. I know the latter are a dying breed already, but I can’t help anticipate the bit of nostalgia I will feel when I finally stop receiving things written in cursive.
Of course, part of me also looks forward to telling my own son and/or daughter about the time I had to address 100 inner and outer envelopes in handwritten cursive. Uphill. Both ways.