Deep in the heart of texting
I hate texting.
I hate the intrusiveness. Texts can and do arrive 24/7, whether you’re driving, reading, watching tv or having a serious conversation:
Doctor: To be honest, you have at most two weeks left to …
Phone: DING!
Text message: “Just $15 gives a prisoner 8 weeks with Jesus through the Gospel. Will you offer them that hope? Tap to learn how>>”
I hate the implied urgency. Texters need to reach you now! This very minute! They expect you will consider their messages to be as urgent as they do. I would welcome a text from, say, the Florida Lottery informing me I have 24 hours to claim or forfeit the jackpot I’ve won but for 99.95 percent of the texts I receive, an email or voice message I can respond to at my convenience will do nicely, thank you.
i hate the runon sentences with no punctuation or capitalization many texters use they are so busy sending and returning texts they dont care if they are destroying their native language be it english swahili or swedish
I hate being part of a text chain in which someone sends a message that includes four or five other people. When the other recipients reply, my iPhone dings again, with yet another incoming message I have no interest in seeing.
Most of all, I hate that texts arrive by cell phone. I hate having to squint at that tiny screen to decipher messages. And if I feel compelled to reply, I hate typing on a digital screen keyboard designed for a dwarf. I’m not one of those people who can type a War & Peace-length reply in a few seconds using the fingers and thumbs on both hands. I’ve been called a dick but actually I’m a pecker; I use one finger. Sure, my iPhone gives me the option of dictating a reply but when I do and Siri asks if it’s OK to send, I insist on reviewing it — I’m a writer, I’m not going to send a reply with typos— and have to squint all over again to read Siri’s transcription. It almost never comes out right, so I have to go back to the keyboard and correct it.
I hate that society now expects people to carry their effing phones with them everywhere they go because most communication these days is done by text. Cell phones should no longer be called “phones.” Phones are passe´. They should be called “texters.”
I'm the only person I know who doesn't take his cell phone with him when he leaves the house. The reason is simple: I have no butt. It was never much to speak of, even in my younger days, but over the last 15 years it seems to have vanished entirely. Now, in my dotage, it's as flat as my stomach was when I was 18. Women have the advantage of handbags in which they can stash their phones —or, as I’ve noticed more often lately, carrying their phones in hand, clutching them tightly like infants rescued from a fire. Men, on the other hand, are stuck with carrying theirs in the pockets of their pants. But when you lack rear-end support, anything heavier than a key fob sends your pants sliding straight to the floor. No curves means no resistance. And trust me, that’s not a good look—especially at my age.
Because I don’t carry my phone, it’s not something I keep at top-of-mind awareness so, when I get home, I usually forget to check it. And because I don’t check it, I miss out on both text and voicemail messages. For years, friends have accused me of not replying to texts they consider urgent like, “Let’s meet at the club for dinner” or, “Don’t let the dogs out, there is an alligator on your front porch.”
Tired of hearing complaints that I am rude — and reluctantly acknowledging I have missed messages I really should have seen — I finally broke down a few weeks ago and bought the latest model Apple watch to make sure I can get text messages wherever I go as long as it is connected to wifi or my cellular carrier.
How has my new watch worked out so far?
Well, this morning, while taking our Jack Russell terrier on his daily walk (the “workout” app informed me it took one hour and 51 seconds, covered 2.10 miles, and burned 172 active calories and 268 total calories as my heart was beating at an average of 84 bpm), I received these urgent texts I would have otherwise missed, from:
Louie’s Haircut & Shave Shop, reminding me of an upcoming appointment with Felipe who, every four weeks, gives me a $42 haircut for the special senior rate of $35. The haircut takes 30 minutes, 15 of which Felipe spends checking and replying to text messages.
Darlene from “the Human Resource Department” informing me she has seen my “excellent background” and wants to recommend me for a high-paying job. “You can choose part-time or full time, the work content is simple and can be completed at home and we will provide about 60 minutes of free training every day. The salary is $100-$500 per day and your monthly income is guaranteed to be no less than $10,000, paid daily.”
Hot damn, that extra income will help me pay for the watch when my credit card bill comes due next week.
Gov. Ron DeSantis telling me that, “Florida House leaders are working with Democrats to stop our agenda and sabotage Florida’s success. Call your State Rep. Bontana at 850-717-5080 and tell them (sic) to stand with the people and me to keep Florida free.”
Are the House leaders and Democrats up in Tallahassee planning a coup that will become a dictatorship and take away our freedom? If that’s the case, the governor should be calling out the National Guard instead of wasting time texting me.
Verizon, informing me I can trade in my old iPhone and get the latest model, an iPhone 16, for free, provided I extend my contract for three years.
I just may take them up on that. Last time I showed friends pictures on my ancient iPhone SE, they made fun of me. One said using a phone that old is akin to watching tv on a black and white set.
Tamiami Ford, announcing I can get a 2025 F-150 pick-up for just $499/mo for 36 months (excluding license and title fees).
No thanks. Our HOA doesn’t allow pick-ups unless they are being driven by workmen who have to be gone by 6 pm.
As I write, my new Apple Watch 10 GPS+Cellular is recharging on the kitchen counter alongside my Apple MacBook, Apple iPad, Apple earbuds and antique Apple iPhone.
Now, all I have to do is remember to strap the damn thing on whenever I leave the house.
Knowing me, I probably won’t.
