Just in case I don’t make it back — or, rather, don’t make it there, since this is the  centimeter-long runway we’re expected to land on (Eric Furst, if there are any top-secret severe wind conditions going on in the Caribbean this weekend, you best keep me notified, thanks) — please know that I am later this evening acquiring an iPhone, so that in the event I’m proposed to on the island, I will just be able to think, “OMG CALL GAYLE NOW,” and the iPhone will pick up on my brainwaves and immediately group-dial my sister, Marie, Tara, and Lara.

And then the iPhone will refill the canteen of rum punch I’ve carted out to the cliff ledge with me, and it will transform my pashmina into a noose, and after we’ve toasted marriage and spinsterdom and paradise and technology and Steve Jobs, I will go gently into the balmy, subtly cooling-to-70-degrees-around-sunset evening.

Except that nobody will be toasting Steve Jobs, because — little known fact — he wouldn’t marry Joan Baez because she didn’t want to have any more children. And I’m sorry, but finding a reason not to marry JOAN BAEZ? Is quite possibly the weakest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. I can forgive him his worldwide profiting-off-of-the-dumb domination, but I can’t forgive Steve Jobs that.

I bought a new $5 streetcart pashmina today, in white. It’s my first ever white pashmina. I have green, yellow, purple, a couple black — and of course my “real” one that Lara got me from Turkey, which is multi-colored — but up ’til now, no white. So in the event that I really, truly don’t come back, please tell the pashmina vendor at the Southeast corner of 52nd and Fifth what happened.

And also? Treat yourself to a new pashmina! You deserve it! His are the best in town.