Let's see... wallet, spectacles, gaspers... Blast! My calling cards!

Freedom is leaving the house without the need of an overcoat or gloves, and little more in the pockets than a slim wallet. But when are we afforded so light a burden? A balmy late-night sundry run? A weekend brunch? Even then, phones rarely leave our person for fear of missing a last minute addition or change of venue. Keys to the house or car end up in one pocket, and if sunny, sunglasses in another. I must admit, not smoking has less to do with health than it does with the inconvenience of having to haul the paraphernalia. And then there is the matter of the professional card.

I once worked for a small media company that insisted its employees carry reams of cards at all times. These cards had some sort of glazing which would crack and flake if mistreated in a back pocket; worse, they were oversized squares that wouldn’t reasonably comply with any sort of standard card case or billfold. Those dreadful cards were my chief motivation in seeking a position elsewhere.

And yet there is one type of card that has always appealed: the calling card. These Victorian holdovers once served as the primary way of letting an acquaintance know you had visited their home, either while they were out performing similar rounds or indisposed in some chamber within. The complex etiquette of how many to leave and for whom and during what hours etc. is perhaps one of the reasons the calling card fell from favor. The other reason? The telephone, which discouraged the urge to show up unannounced on someone’s stoop.

Today, of course, the idea is beyond quaint—which is precisely why I decided to commission some. With the expert guidance of a local print and stationery shop, an idea was born so ludicrous as to completely dispel any whiff of utility: calligraphy. Someone trained in the craft would actually hand-write something of my choice on one hundred small pieces of paper. I chose an appropriately grand typeface and a lovely cream stock cut to the standard business card size rather than the larger (but far less pocket friendly) calling card size. The question remained, though: what to have put on?

Tradition calls for little more than a name, perhaps with an important club association. Business information is strictly prohibited as the calling card is a social marker, not a professional one. But even I was mortified by the vanity of such handwritten nakedness. And then it occurred to me; what entity in my life most suits so brazen a gesture? This very site, of course! The results are intentionally obtuse, delightfully inconsistent and completely, utterly unnecessary. In plainer terms: perfect.

Emboldened by the results, I might have others made bearing my name. Maybe my wife needs her own. It might be too much for our toddler, although It would make quite the splash at her preschool. Of course all this card swapping in my future requires another Victorian accoutrement—the receiving tray. I must remember to call in on my silversmith.