Saturday, July 30
R We D8ting? by Sandra Barron
I'd gone through all the stages of an actual relationship almost solely via text message.
THE orange message light on my cellphone started blinking as I was getting ready for bed. Barely an hour had passed since our quick kiss goodnight at the subway, and I was surprised to see the screen light up with the initials I'd just entered into my phone. It wasn't voice mail; it was a text message, and it made me smile.
U miss me? ;-)
I'd met him a week before at my usual Wednesday night hangout. He was alone but gregarious, and he seemed to be pals with the female bartender - a tacit vote of confidence. He chatted with my friends and me and then left with a wave from the door, and when my friend Kate and I ordered our next drinks, the bartender said this round was on the guy we'd been talking to.
Surprised, we debated his motivations. I insisted that perfectly normal people sometimes buy strangers drinks just to be nice. Kate thought he was way too aggressive.
When I saw him at the bar the next Wednesday, I thanked him for the drink. He asked if he could take me to dinner sometime; I said I'd think about it. He walked me to the subway and we exchanged numbers, but I thought it would be days before I heard from him, if ever, making this late-night text message all the more unexpected.
I like text messages. They fill an ever-narrowing gap in modern communication tools, combining the immediacy of a phone call with the convenience of an answering machine message and the premeditation of e-mail. And if they happen to be from a crush and pop up late at night, they have the giddy re-readability of a note left on a pillow.
So did I miss him? Certainly not yet. But I was flying from New York to West Virginia in the morning for work; maybe I'd miss him while I was away? I could already hear my friends citing his enthusiasm as evidence he was coming on too strong, but I'd had enough of aloof. I found his boldness refreshing.
Before I turned out the light and snapped the phone into its charger, I allowed myself one more grin at his message and a grimace at his middle-school style ("U"? A winking smiley face?). Then I deleted it.
He called the next afternoon while I was grounded in Pittsburgh between flights. He kept me company while I ambled down moving walkways and wandered through a loop of food courts. We talked about work for the first time; he said he worked intense hours as a freelancer so he could take months off at a time to travel, and he showed he had been paying attention by asking me about things we had discussed at the bar. He asked if we could have dinner when I got back to town, and I said sure.
A few hours later, as the prop plane taxied toward the gate in West Virginia, I turned on my phone and an animated lighthouse beacon indicated that it was searching for a signal. For three days, the light swept the dark cartoon sea in vain. Every time I saw "no signal" on the screen I felt unmoored and isolated. But as soon as the signal bars sprang to life on my trip home on Monday, that orange light flashed on and, sure enough, it was him.
Miss me now?
I'd missed having cellphone service, and my mind had indeed wandered at times to our airport conversation. But that degree of nuance was too much for the 12-button keypad, so I wrote, Hi! Sure. Talk when I get back.
This set off a volley of texts. Where did I live? What day is good? What about tonight? Tomorrow? We decided on dinner that Thursday and I finally signed off, thumb sore and eyes tired.
At the office on Tuesday, as the light blinked on again (Din in SoHo then drinks in the E Vil, and maybe a kiss), I wondered, Just who is this guy?
Google failed me. One time, armed with only a guy's first name and the fact that he sold sneakers, I had found his full details and photos online. But all I had here was a cellphone number and initials, and Friendster, MySpace and Technorati - the entire digital detective squad of the modern dater - were stumped.
I would actually have to learn about him the old-fashioned way, in person. Which is partly why, on a slushy, windy Wednesday afternoon, I liked his next message:
Dinner @ Raoul's 2morrow, I just made reservations 4 7:30.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone out with someone who'd made reservations.
Sounds good! I replied.
A message came back as I was leaving the office: Its better than good - u r with me! Maybe I'll stop by the bar 2nite.
So he remembered I usually went on Wednesdays.
On the way over, feet soaked and fingers numb, I knew that I didn't want him to brave the sleet just to see me, especially since it would be awkward trying to get to know him better while hanging out with people he had never met. And after all, we had reservations for the next night.
Don't come out in this weather! I wrote. Can't really hang out anyway, see you tomorrow.
His reply was impossibly swift for its length: I live 45 seconds from there and I would be doing my own thing. I am not leachy. Very independent boy I am. I may or may not, depends where the wind takes me.
Was it just me, or had things just taken a hairpin turn for the hostile? My message was meant to be friendly. Had it come out that way? Or was I reading him wrong? I needed to find a way to respond that was light, in case I was only imagining he was angry, but not flippant, in case he actually was.
I swallowed my distaste for cutesy abbreviations and tried: LOL! As you like, then. :-) I cringed slightly as I hit send; this suddenly seemed like a dangerously clumsy way of communicating.
Minutes later: Would u like me 2 stay away?
Oh, dear. At this point, yes. Wires were crossing that would probably be best untangled in person, the next day.
Entering the bar, I waved to my friends in their booth and, before joining them, whipped off a quick response, attempting to be polite and clear: Yeah, I guess that'd be better; you'd distract me if you were here.
A minute later, after I'd settled in with my friends, the orange light looked like a warning: 2 late, im here.
I looked up. Sure enough, there he was, talking to two girls at the bar. He drifted closer and hovered nearby but didn't make eye contact. By the time he came over and sat down, a full hour had passed.
He'd clearly had a few drinks, and our conversation went downhill as fast as it had on our phone screens. He said that I'd tried to "control" him by saying he shouldn't come to the bar and added that he hadn't come to see me but to see other people. After going on in this vein for a while, he suddenly softened and asked me to "promise one thing": a kiss before the night was over.
I stammered that I couldn't make any promises. He shook his head and stormed off, sloshing the beers on the table and sending a pool cue clattering to the floor.
Before I could process what had happened, he looked over from his perch on a nearby barstool and smiled, winked and waved over his shoulder as if we'd never met. My friends, wide-eyed, asked what was going on. I wasn't sure, but I did know one thing: reservations or not, tomorrow's date was off.
Not so that evil blinking light. Only half an hour later, with both of us still in the bar, no, was it possible? Another message?
What was that all about? he'd written. R we still on 4 2morrow?
I deleted the message and put my phone away, hoping to erase the whole encounter. Soon he seemed to have left, and as long as my phone stayed in the dark recesses of my purse, I believed that he was powerless to bother me.
But suddenly there he was again, standing a few feet from our booth, smiling and crooking his finger at me.
I shook my head.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
I told him we had nothing to talk about.
Turns out I wasn't the only person who found him menacing; within minutes the bartender took the stocky wine glass out of his hand and told him to leave.
I hoped he would be so embarrassed that he wouldn't dream of contacting me again. But the next morning the blinking orange light seemed louder than my bleating alarm clock. Three new messages. Mailbox full.
From 6:30 a.m.: I am done boozing for a while!! ;-)
From 6:38 a.m.: What did I do 2 upset u? Do u not want to have dinner?
At 6:45, as if he had waited long enough for a reply: Anyway, 2 bad, I would have liked 2 have gotten 2 know u.
I liked the finality of that one.
But had he really given up, or was there simply no more room in the inbox? I deleted those three and got on the subway. I emerged to find: Pls forgive me and join me 4 dinner. ;-(
We are not going out, I wrote.
What did I do?
I'm at work and we're not discussing this.
Whatever, he wrote. U don't have 2 b ignorant. Peace.
I turned off the phone, dumbfounded. How had this happened? How had we managed to speed through all the stages of an actual relationship almost solely via text message? I'd gone from butterflies to doubt to anger at his name on the screen, before we even knew each other.
That was it, I decided: no more text-message flirtations for me. From now on I'd stick to more old-fashioned ways of getting to know a guy. Like e-mail.
[NYT]
(... sandra is so carrie bradshaw in the article, she makes me laugh. go on, read it, but only coz it's irresistibly entertaining, in a girly gossipy way haha)
I'd gone through all the stages of an actual relationship almost solely via text message.
THE orange message light on my cellphone started blinking as I was getting ready for bed. Barely an hour had passed since our quick kiss goodnight at the subway, and I was surprised to see the screen light up with the initials I'd just entered into my phone. It wasn't voice mail; it was a text message, and it made me smile.
U miss me? ;-)
I'd met him a week before at my usual Wednesday night hangout. He was alone but gregarious, and he seemed to be pals with the female bartender - a tacit vote of confidence. He chatted with my friends and me and then left with a wave from the door, and when my friend Kate and I ordered our next drinks, the bartender said this round was on the guy we'd been talking to.
Surprised, we debated his motivations. I insisted that perfectly normal people sometimes buy strangers drinks just to be nice. Kate thought he was way too aggressive.
When I saw him at the bar the next Wednesday, I thanked him for the drink. He asked if he could take me to dinner sometime; I said I'd think about it. He walked me to the subway and we exchanged numbers, but I thought it would be days before I heard from him, if ever, making this late-night text message all the more unexpected.
I like text messages. They fill an ever-narrowing gap in modern communication tools, combining the immediacy of a phone call with the convenience of an answering machine message and the premeditation of e-mail. And if they happen to be from a crush and pop up late at night, they have the giddy re-readability of a note left on a pillow.
So did I miss him? Certainly not yet. But I was flying from New York to West Virginia in the morning for work; maybe I'd miss him while I was away? I could already hear my friends citing his enthusiasm as evidence he was coming on too strong, but I'd had enough of aloof. I found his boldness refreshing.
Before I turned out the light and snapped the phone into its charger, I allowed myself one more grin at his message and a grimace at his middle-school style ("U"? A winking smiley face?). Then I deleted it.
He called the next afternoon while I was grounded in Pittsburgh between flights. He kept me company while I ambled down moving walkways and wandered through a loop of food courts. We talked about work for the first time; he said he worked intense hours as a freelancer so he could take months off at a time to travel, and he showed he had been paying attention by asking me about things we had discussed at the bar. He asked if we could have dinner when I got back to town, and I said sure.
A few hours later, as the prop plane taxied toward the gate in West Virginia, I turned on my phone and an animated lighthouse beacon indicated that it was searching for a signal. For three days, the light swept the dark cartoon sea in vain. Every time I saw "no signal" on the screen I felt unmoored and isolated. But as soon as the signal bars sprang to life on my trip home on Monday, that orange light flashed on and, sure enough, it was him.
Miss me now?
I'd missed having cellphone service, and my mind had indeed wandered at times to our airport conversation. But that degree of nuance was too much for the 12-button keypad, so I wrote, Hi! Sure. Talk when I get back.
This set off a volley of texts. Where did I live? What day is good? What about tonight? Tomorrow? We decided on dinner that Thursday and I finally signed off, thumb sore and eyes tired.
At the office on Tuesday, as the light blinked on again (Din in SoHo then drinks in the E Vil, and maybe a kiss), I wondered, Just who is this guy?
Google failed me. One time, armed with only a guy's first name and the fact that he sold sneakers, I had found his full details and photos online. But all I had here was a cellphone number and initials, and Friendster, MySpace and Technorati - the entire digital detective squad of the modern dater - were stumped.
I would actually have to learn about him the old-fashioned way, in person. Which is partly why, on a slushy, windy Wednesday afternoon, I liked his next message:
Dinner @ Raoul's 2morrow, I just made reservations 4 7:30.
I couldn't remember the last time I'd gone out with someone who'd made reservations.
Sounds good! I replied.
A message came back as I was leaving the office: Its better than good - u r with me! Maybe I'll stop by the bar 2nite.
So he remembered I usually went on Wednesdays.
On the way over, feet soaked and fingers numb, I knew that I didn't want him to brave the sleet just to see me, especially since it would be awkward trying to get to know him better while hanging out with people he had never met. And after all, we had reservations for the next night.
Don't come out in this weather! I wrote. Can't really hang out anyway, see you tomorrow.
His reply was impossibly swift for its length: I live 45 seconds from there and I would be doing my own thing. I am not leachy. Very independent boy I am. I may or may not, depends where the wind takes me.
Was it just me, or had things just taken a hairpin turn for the hostile? My message was meant to be friendly. Had it come out that way? Or was I reading him wrong? I needed to find a way to respond that was light, in case I was only imagining he was angry, but not flippant, in case he actually was.
I swallowed my distaste for cutesy abbreviations and tried: LOL! As you like, then. :-) I cringed slightly as I hit send; this suddenly seemed like a dangerously clumsy way of communicating.
Minutes later: Would u like me 2 stay away?
Oh, dear. At this point, yes. Wires were crossing that would probably be best untangled in person, the next day.
Entering the bar, I waved to my friends in their booth and, before joining them, whipped off a quick response, attempting to be polite and clear: Yeah, I guess that'd be better; you'd distract me if you were here.
A minute later, after I'd settled in with my friends, the orange light looked like a warning: 2 late, im here.
I looked up. Sure enough, there he was, talking to two girls at the bar. He drifted closer and hovered nearby but didn't make eye contact. By the time he came over and sat down, a full hour had passed.
He'd clearly had a few drinks, and our conversation went downhill as fast as it had on our phone screens. He said that I'd tried to "control" him by saying he shouldn't come to the bar and added that he hadn't come to see me but to see other people. After going on in this vein for a while, he suddenly softened and asked me to "promise one thing": a kiss before the night was over.
I stammered that I couldn't make any promises. He shook his head and stormed off, sloshing the beers on the table and sending a pool cue clattering to the floor.
Before I could process what had happened, he looked over from his perch on a nearby barstool and smiled, winked and waved over his shoulder as if we'd never met. My friends, wide-eyed, asked what was going on. I wasn't sure, but I did know one thing: reservations or not, tomorrow's date was off.
Not so that evil blinking light. Only half an hour later, with both of us still in the bar, no, was it possible? Another message?
What was that all about? he'd written. R we still on 4 2morrow?
I deleted the message and put my phone away, hoping to erase the whole encounter. Soon he seemed to have left, and as long as my phone stayed in the dark recesses of my purse, I believed that he was powerless to bother me.
But suddenly there he was again, standing a few feet from our booth, smiling and crooking his finger at me.
I shook my head.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
I told him we had nothing to talk about.
Turns out I wasn't the only person who found him menacing; within minutes the bartender took the stocky wine glass out of his hand and told him to leave.
I hoped he would be so embarrassed that he wouldn't dream of contacting me again. But the next morning the blinking orange light seemed louder than my bleating alarm clock. Three new messages. Mailbox full.
From 6:30 a.m.: I am done boozing for a while!! ;-)
From 6:38 a.m.: What did I do 2 upset u? Do u not want to have dinner?
At 6:45, as if he had waited long enough for a reply: Anyway, 2 bad, I would have liked 2 have gotten 2 know u.
I liked the finality of that one.
But had he really given up, or was there simply no more room in the inbox? I deleted those three and got on the subway. I emerged to find: Pls forgive me and join me 4 dinner. ;-(
We are not going out, I wrote.
What did I do?
I'm at work and we're not discussing this.
Whatever, he wrote. U don't have 2 b ignorant. Peace.
I turned off the phone, dumbfounded. How had this happened? How had we managed to speed through all the stages of an actual relationship almost solely via text message? I'd gone from butterflies to doubt to anger at his name on the screen, before we even knew each other.
That was it, I decided: no more text-message flirtations for me. From now on I'd stick to more old-fashioned ways of getting to know a guy. Like e-mail.
[NYT]
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