In a world of so much technological communication, texting has become the new norm. We text to make plans, catch up about our day, and even to flirt. And usually, we get responses. But when we don't, we beat ourselves up about it--wondering what we did wrong, or if we said something we shouldn't have. How all of this texting-b.s. makes us feel is a legitimate issue (admittedly a first world problem, for sure,) but let's talk about it.
Starting with this: WHY do we not respond to each other? I'm really talking about boys here, and why, in particular, we let them play texting games with us (the same often goes for one party in same-sex relationships, though I wish it wasn't the case). In college, I would text a boy and feel genuinely lucky if he responded within the day. WITHIN THE DAY. Not within 10 minutes... not within an hour. The day. That's a full 24 big ones, people. As an adult (I use that word so incredibly loosely), I now find that unequivocally absurd. We all carry our phones around with us all day, and in turn, spend good deal of our time staring at them. We walk and talk, walk and text, and Snapchat til we've experimented with every damn filter. It's just the way of this generation.
In one instance, sometime around the year 2011, I texted a boy who I'd met on a Saturday night, on Sunday evening. We'd exchanged numbers and shared a few frat-basement dances--and so I asked casually, and in all sincerity, "How did your night end up?" A few hours went by. Monday morning rolled around. Monday afternoon: nothing. 6:10 pm on Monday evening, I walk into class and see none other than frat basement boy!--Ah, he's in my lecture? How strange that I never noticed! I take a seat someplace behind said boy, and watch in horror as he pulls out his phone. Though blurry, I can see the blue bubbles, ever recognizable, pop up on the screen... he's texting someone.
When that next Saturday rolled around--oh, around 11 o'clock--guess who decided to answer my text? None other than Fratty-Lecture boy himself. "What're you up to tonight?"
"Lol." I responded. "L o l."
Looking back, this bold response was probably one in one hundred for me (I'm exaggerating, not that many people have or will ever ask for my number). But at nearly all other intervals of my collegiate career, I'd let myself get sucked into the world of texting games. I'd never taken the time to really think to myself: is this worth it? Is this boy I met in a basement, beer dribbling down his chin and splattered across his discolored Vineyard Vines shirt really worth it? And to my 19 year-old-self I boldly answer: no. If Frat-Star-Basement-Boy-How-To-Drink-Beer-101 had really wanted to talk to me, or given a damn about what I was doing 7 days after our first interaction, he would have answered me when I reached out Sunday night. Or he would've given me a primo excuse about why he didn't respond until Monday (read: I had a 1,000 page paper due, sorry!; I was running a marathon and it took me a full day to finish; etc.)
So I guess my point in writing this is as follows: take the advice of your older, wiser self, even if you're neither older nor wiser quite yet, and don't let these boys, girls, chairs--whatever you're into--walk all over you via text. Don't let the lack of response ruin your day if such and such doesn't respond to your emotionally charged message post-Saturday night dance session. And likewise, if you're the boy in the aforementioned story--answer that cute girl you had a nice conversation with on Saturday night when Sunday rolls around. Remember, you had beer all over your shirt and looked a total hot mess, and she was still interested in you (unbelievable, I know). Act like the human being that you are, and prove to everyone, including yourself, that you're not a sociopath, eh?
Moreover, if you wait 7 days to text back, I can guarantee you: it'll be your loss.
