Ask anyone and they’ll tell you that texting is the worst form of communication. It is devoid of inflection, nuance and body language and, because of this, it can be inadvertently volatile. It gives people the option of inventing their own nuance and inflection–and given that people usually default right to the negative when they think about themselves–there’s only one way that can go.
Or so I used to imagine. The truth is that texting and its precarious properties are the perfect tool for anyone who finds themselves in the middle aged dating pool.
If there ever was a need for noncommittal and ambiguous communication, this would be it.
A few weeks ago, an ex-girlfriend from several years ago reached out to me through text:
“Boy you should be glad you’re not in a relationship.”
I am, by nature, a guarded person. Or, more accurately, suspicious. So immediately one half of my brain was trying to work out a pithy response and the other half was trying to theorize why she was texting me at all. Finally, I responded:
“Now what makes you think I am not in a relationship?”
A playful, friendly response. The greenlight of boy/girl hetero texting. She responded:
“Are you?”
Bingo. Mystery solved. Or so you might think.
Throughout the course of that whole day the text conversation continued. Innuendos. Minutiae. Gossip. Family anecdotes. Everything seemed to be fair game.
“Do you know my boyfriend, Ian?” she texted.
“Is his last name Hunter?”
“No.”
“Don’t know him.”
“He’s nice and everything but not the best in bed. The oral sex thing–as usual. He’ll only do it after I break up with him.”
“Well he’s got weird timing if nothing else.”
“You know, during make up sex.”
“His mother probably told him to never go down without a fight.”
“That was awful. Hey! Did you know the company that invented the tampon string was in Brooklyn?”
“No, I never heard that.”
“Bushwick.”
“Holy Jesus, that was terrible.”
Now, once the two of us start trying to out-dirty joke each other, it means only one thing. We have descended to the familiar. 100 years ago, this was indicated by addressing the object of your affection by their first name, now it can be done with dumb remarks about feminine hygiene products.
Seriously though, it made me laugh and daydream a little bit about what it might be like if we started having an affair. And that good euphoric feeling only lasted for a few moments. I believe I have mentioned in earlier articles that I have finally reached a point in my life where being “alone” is not something I am hating. It is not even something I am enduring begrudgingly. It is something that I am finally enjoying.
The next text came over after about twenty minutes:
“My Aunt Mathilda died.”
As David Sedaris has observed on many similar occasions, that’s not fair.
“What am I supposed to do with that?” he’d usually complain.
He’s got a point, though. Where on earth is a conversation supposed to progress from that point. Here we are making innuendos about female genitalia, kidding about carrying on an infidelity, and just being generally jovial with one another, and without warning, we have been shifted into a world of flowers, mass cards and Kleenex.
It was getting late, so I Googled “What do you say to someone when they tell you their relative died?”
There were, of course, endless arrays of listicles from Tiny Buddha, Elephant Journal, Gawker, and Huffington Post. I managed to do a quick, cursory inventory of all the different advice and none of it sounded sincere. Not even slightly.
One of the articles ended with the suggestion, “Say nothing. Just give them a hug.” That one was the only one that appeared, to me, to be even somewhat viable. I texted:
“If I was there right now, I’d give you a hug. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
And then I fell asleep.
When I awoke, there was no response. Nor was there one later in the day. Or the next day. Or even the next day. That’s when I decided to simply text one last time:
“Or not.”
To which she replied:
“I just walked in the door from a funeral. Forgive me.”
This harkens back to what I opened this article with. Try reading that with four or five different inflections. My theatrical friends, I know, will have a much better time with this exercise than my more scientific minded ones, but even the driest sensibility will be able to discern that there are myriad ways this could be perceived.
The fact that this still remains on my phone as our last text, I think, gives a decent indication of what inflection might be the correct one. But even more than that, it stays there as a reminder that enjoying the company of one’s own self is not a consolation prize.
I’m sure I’ve said this on numerous occasions, but unless adding someone to my equation is going to make a marked improvement, I really don’t see the point. Especially since I have worked out a sexual situation that is purely friendly and devoid of all awkwardness.
So like Walt Whitman, I celebrate this song of myself.
Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself; (I am large. I contain multitudes).
When I first read the title I needed more. I love Walt. Something about grief and loss that makes you yearn for connection.
When I read the title I needed more. I love Walt. There is something about grief, loss and love that makes you reach out.