Admittedly, I was late to the party as far as texting is concerned. Not that I’m sorry about this fact in the least. Truth be told, I would trade in my android for a rotary phone if I didn’t have a social life that frowns upon this stagecoach-like form of communication.
It was in the mid 2000’s when I first started texting on the regular. Before that time, I abstained from this method of communication because I thought it to be superfluous and frilly (kind of the way I see Twitter and Instagram in present day). I believed the only time I needed to text was in the event of a life and death situation; like, if I was pinned inside my car at the bottom of a ravine . . or if a grizzly bear had me cornered . . . or if I ran out of beer. Yanno, legit emergencies.
Then I started dating and I really had no choice. On the other side of my marriage, the world had grown up in ways I never could have foreseen. Communism was dead, and so was Grunge. The Clintonian Era had given way to the Bush Dynasty. New England lost its sports curses. and single women used texting to reset the rules of love and war.
The first woman I dated after my marriage was twelve years my junior and possessed enough energy to give the Hoover Dam the weekend off. If I would have given it any thought whatsoever, I never would have asked her out. Carolyn lived her life as if sleep was optional whereas I consider sleep to be my nightly power-ball winning number for a day well done. Unfortunately, I have a dangling participle whose determination as to our compatibility consisted of the fact that she possessed the legs of a catamaran.
The short lived affair came to its conclusion over a single, innocuous text. We were cuddling in a nightclub with friendly drinks galvanizing our bodies into a synchronized slow dance that had carnivale written all over it. And then she asked me if I was having fun . . .via text . . .whilst her back was giving me a belly rub. That’s when I knew we weren’t meant to be. My dangling participle decided to give us the weekend, for old times sake.
From there, texting became an integral part of my romantic involvements- for the better and sometimes worse of things. There was Karen- a middle aged divorcee- who would drunk text me after a night of line dancing to let me know she was thinking of coming over. Her girlish spontaneity was quite strategic in nature, seeing as how she always seemed to call on me when I started talking up another woman. Then there was Melanie, who always seemed to text me with salacious come ons when she would start talking up another man. Tracy loved to text the stuff she wanted to do to me while Lisa loved to text the stuff we’d already done. Valerie texted poetry while Angela texted passive aggressively. Maria texted bible verses and Gina texted the antonymous equivalents. Amy texted about her babies and Lizette about her baby daddy. Deanna texted adorable pics of her puppy and Terry texted me even more adorable pics of her pussycat. (That’s not a play on words, she really had a cat.) Katie liked to break up with me via text before making up with a phone call.
Gerri was different in that texting wasn’t the preferred method of communication during our on again/off again five year involvement. She had been a kind and trusted friend back when my relationship with Katie was busy going all Zero Dark Thirty. Our getting together was a matter of having nothing left to lose and finding myself in the company of someone who was in the very same place. Texting with G was very nuts and bolts stuff- dates, times and locations. She didn’t have time for nonsense, and I dug that immensely.
As far as texting goes, I have achieved a much more harmonious balance. Perhaps there is no better example of this than my pal Brian. His texts are prickly wildebeests whose clever intrusions always score. He’s a master of the lightning flash text, cold slapping the mundane to attention with wicked humor.
Thing is, Brian ain’t much for emojis. as evidenced when he critiqued my texting as being ’emoji-centric’. I replied with . . you guessed it, a laughing emoji.
Use your fucking words, Jesus!
I’m not sure when I was infected with the emoji, but it was quite evident I had contracted this textually transmitted disease and he was giving me the what’s what about it. You never think it’s going to happen to you, and then one day you wake up to find you have as many saved emojis as you have words on your phone.
I should have used protection.