I’m 43. I don’t really text. I could, but I don’t, and when I do, it’s pretty lame. Which isn’t much different than when anyone else texts, I think. You look back on the strings and they’re precision details about coming or going, Five minutes late, Almost there…Just be on time! (Who cares, anyway?)
But because I’m 43 I think I’m part of a generation of clumsy texters. At least my friends and me. I don’t text work-stuff and I’m married, so my married texts aren’t what you’d call Hot. More, precision details on coming or going.
No, my texts are mainly with two friends centered on what we’re drinking, formulaic, predictable like a James Bond book, not near as good: Self-congratulatory about a growler I picked up, how far I got into it, what I ate, listened to. (By publishing it, it somehow got better! Like this is so great, you can’t believe it!)
There’s my goofy friend Loren in Portland who texts in a kind of Middle English at times, with a lot of Y’s where they shouldn’t be and phonetics, but still sounds like him, just by text. He dropped out of San Francisco for Portland and will stay there forever until some place gets weirder, and that will never happen.
And then there’s my friend Anthony, who baits me to talk trash about my mother-in-law’s dog Minnie, which becomes a kind of game to discover new uses of common swear words, and pack as many as I can into a small cell.
It’s something to do in the elevator as we ride down the car from work, to resume our real lives in slivers of dialogue. I know there’s programs now where you can bark into the phone and it will spit out texts, but I don’t get that. Why not just make a phone call? Because you’re driving? Then drive!