Let’s see . . . I’m on Facebook and MySpace, also Yahoo, and then there’s my WordPress blog and primary website. I have three email accounts, and at least a dozen aliases. I have a cell phone, a Vonage line (which used to simul-ring my cell phone until I realized that all that ringing in the house was likely to drive me mad), and I have a fair amount included in my Verizon plan for text messaging. In addition to that, I have a USB charger, a wall charger, and a car charger—all to make certain that my cell phone battery is perpetually good to go. I have a Netbook, with wifi, so unless I’m in the absolute boondocks (meaning out of range of at least a single McDonald’s), the chances are good that I can get online.
In other words, I am incredibly accessible. We have moved well beyond the days of Pony Express, delivering our missives via horseback in relays across the prairies. Then there came the overland telegraph (Pony Express officially ceased to operate a mere two days after its implementation), the multi-line telegraph, and the teletype. And wouldn’t you know it, but a certain someone (Alexander Graham Bell, to be precise) with a musical background conceived of transmitting speech using a harmonic approach—which led us to the telephone.
Imagine! The brilliance of invention that has allowed for all the ways we can now reach out and touch someone. Today, we have moved on from the telephone to cellular phones, 3G and 4G networks, wireless, Bluetooth, everything hand’s free, voice recognition, automatic alerts to text . . . So how is it that I still feel so remarkably untouched? My voicemail is nearly empty; only my mother bothers to comment on my Facebook status; my MySpace page gets a lot fewer hits now that I’m no longer listed as single; and I barely use my quota of text messages—sending and receiving. And while my business email is flooded—mainly with a lot of suggestions that I enhance the size of a portion of human anatomy I don’t actually possess—my personal email inbox is almost always dismally low on content.
You have NO new messages.
You have NO new text messages.
You have NO new comments.
You have NO new emails.
Face(book) it: NO one loves you. (That’s the subtext, right?)
Love in Ones and Zeros
My boyfriend and I both have Facebook accounts. At first, I imagined that this would be fun. I envisioned us leaving cute, witty, and flirtatious comments to each other—some of which, quite naturally, only we would understand. We would exchange silly presents—like alpacas and more of those wacky Japanese inventions. We would superpoke each other and see who could win the most pirate booty—or score the highest in Tetris (which will always be him). We would declare to the world our connection via the “In a Relationship” link.
Unfortunately, this was not to be. In the beginning, we commented a few times on each other’s pages, sent each other funny things with ridiculous aps, and then . . . nothing! No more pokes. No more llama kisses or kidnapping each other to Barcelona using the Sandwich under the Cage.
It seemed we were no longer taking advantage of the technological doorways leading to each other’s hearts. The little conductors soldered to my previously techno-infused love circuitry were coming loose from neglect!
Text messaging isn’t just for culling the population of teenage drivers
I used to think text messaging was ridiculous. What can you possibly have to say to someone in under 160 characters? Plus, I had to press a key no less than six times before it got around to giving me an apostrophe—and you’d better believe that in the beginning, I couldn’t imagine not properly punctuating my sentences! (Yes, that was before the days of QWERTY keyboards. Oh Qwerty, how I love thee!)
When my boyfriend and I were first “courting” each other, we were doing so long distance. Thus, we had numerous occasions in which to send each other cute and flirty messages while carrying on with any number of mundane tasks (I might be clipping my toenails; he might be watching his two-year-old nephew throw spaghetti around at a restaurant). It was fun, and the little “beep-beep” that announced a new message certainly made my heart pound faster. In fact, I thought at some point I might need a surgical intervention; my phone appeared to be fusing itself to my palm—at least, it was always within easy reach of it. I took it with me everywhere—to the bathroom, outside on the porch . . . I didn’t want to miss a single call. Plus, I would check my email a hundred times a day hoping he’d sent me a message. (How about now? Or . . . now? Wait . . . now??) It was compulsive. And yes! Finally, there it was—his name, printed in Bold Times New Roman, appearing like magic in my Inbox. Who knew that a bunch of little pixels could be so stimulating!
And then . . . then we finally lived in the same state, and the emailing and text messaging dwindled to a trickle. After all, why send a message when we could now see each other whenever we wanted? This was clearly infinitely better . . .
But the text messages and emails were romantic. Declarations, which are sometimes hard to make in person (when not fueled, that is, by ample quantities of wine), can be made easier in writing. Perhaps I speak for myself here. I will always be a better writer than I am a speaker—just as the written word will always ring truer for me than speech.
Alas, now, the beep-beep that jars me out of a sound sleep is most likely my friend from Colorado texting me about the hot twenty-something he’s hitting on in a bar, at three o’clock in the morning—because he’s drunk and forgotten that I’m in a time zone that’s two hours behind his.
And my personal email inbox is now filling up with messages from MacMall trying to sell me a computer, or Borders wanting me to buy the new and improved box set of Stephanie Meyer’s Twilight series. (Why would I want to read about a vampire lover who doesn’t need to text “What r u doing?” to his pre-pubescent girlfriend because he’s already peeping through her window?) Oh! And I can get an alert for every time someone else comments on a friend’s post—just because I happened to click the “I like this” link regarding their status. Sweet little electronic gut punches! Nice.
It’s hard not to believe that these communication gateways shouldn’t go to waste between couples. A little note in the middle of the day to your significant other doesn’t take long. It’s not hard to sneak in an occasional quick text message on your break or at lunch—or to dash off a quick email. The underlying message is always going to be, Hey! I was thinking about you. Sometimes, that’s sweeter than flowers if your s/o is in the middle of having a really crummy day.
But what about the other side? What did men and women do before all this emailing and texting and cell phone use? It’s almost impossible to imagine that there was once a time when we couldn’t get in touch with each other every second of the day. How did people ever come together? It’s a wonder our species didn’t just die out.
Perhaps our ancestors (and by this, I mean my mother’s generation), had it best. They couldn’t go crazy wondering why they weren’t getting any messages. Instead, they could picture their husband or wife happily ensconced behind a stack of paperwork roughly the size of the Sears Tower. They kissed them goodbye in the morning, and that was that—released to the wilds with a prayer for their safe return . . . that and maybe something edible for supper.
The Lost Art of Complete Sentences
While it might be nice when someone sends a text message saying, “u r hot,” what woman wouldn’t like a love letter every now and then? I checked. It turns out, men actually do know how to write them. My proof? There’s a book out there called Love Letters of Great Men. Men like Voltaire, George Washington, Goethe, Mozart, Beethoven, Keats, Robert Browning, Tolstoy, and Kafka put pen to paper to share the things “burbling around in their chestal regions” with the women they loved.
Of course, the thing so many of these men had in common was that they were inspired by the absence of their beloved. Their letters are filled with longing and passion. So why should any man write a love letter to his woman if she’s practically right there (i.e., not separated by war or long journeys necessitated by work)?
I have to admit, I’ve grown a bit rusty in the love-letter writing department. Hey, you try to keep writing long, sappy emails that leave you with revelatory hangovers the next day when what you get in return is
<sound of crickets here . . . >
Every now and then, though . . . a woman (probably men, too, when you really get right down to it) likes to hear words. Honest to god words . . . that express, well . . . feelings. Preferably, romantic feelings. I think asking certain men to do this (because remember, there are those men out there who have no problem talking to women about their feelings) is like coming into the room while they’re watching the game with their guy friends and asking them to go buy you tampons. The sort of dread that could be elicited from even the thought of such a thing might be enough to freeze them in place for days on end.
“Talk about feelings?” Urff! “Well, you know . . . I have them, and stuff . . . ” Gulp!
Hopefully, you’ve learned by now how to see them. Remember that time he cleaned the disgusting clog in your shower pipe so the water would drain? The smell was so bad it made you mildly nauseous whenever you went near the bathroom, but he was in there just the same digging out clumps of nastiness deposited there by the previous tenant. Well, then . . . you should know how he feels, right? (Or at least you know he’s willing to clean your pipes every now and then.)
All this means is that I’m examining the possibility that perhaps Facebook just isn’t the best forum for romantic interchange. Or MySpace. Or Blogspot. Or Yahoo. Or texting. Or emails. Maybe it’s all right there, in front of you—when you take a clog-free shower, or when you look at the flowers he brought you, or when he spends his free weekend installing the fountain you wanted in the back yard, or moving your belongings every single time you change residences—even though you’re never there to help. In other words, we should be willing to consider that just because he hasn’t taken a page from Love Letters of Great Men doesn’t mean he’s not also a Great Man.
I think we are too informed about everyone nowdays, it’s a wonder we get anything else done.
And yes, love can be shown by having clean pipes lol.
August 28th, 2009 at 1:06 pm