As a rule, I’m not a fan of time travel. Sure, it would be fun to have cocktails with Zelda and Scott, but there are dangers to consider. Lack of antibiotics/deodorant, time-machine malfunctions, raptor attacks, accidentally erasing the existence of Ryan Gosling – these are things that legitimately concern me. However, there are days when I would happily brave a quick trip back to ye olde smoldering plague-ridden London, if only to avoid sending a text message.
Y’all, I hate my iPhone. It makes me a crazy person. Sure, it always knows where I am and can look up movie times instantly, but it’s also ruining my life. At any moment, my phone can beep out a demand that I talk to someone about my feelings. I’ll just be going about my business, watching Harry Potter and eating chocolate toast, when – BOOM! – someone wants to know if I got an invite to my ex-boyfriend’s wedding.
This stresses me out. I like face-to-face conversations just fine. E-mail is my jam – though, admittedly, this is because I can take time to draft a perfectly worded message. But the phone? Oh, God, the phone is the worst. Except with a select group of people (namely: my mom, Mae, and Kate), I am awkward as hell on the phone. There are unnerving silences, blurted out sentences, and nervous laughter. All of this is magnified if we’re talking about something important. I just really want to see the person I’m talking to, you know? How do I know how that accidental slip of calling Professor McGregor “my boyfriend” went over, unless I actually see his silent scream of horror?
Y’all, I’ve just now gotten to the point where sending the dear professor a text message doesn’t take 10 minutes. The first three months of our relationship were spent analyzing every word typed, to ensure the proper mix of intelligence and charm. Do you know how hard it is to convey “I am so charming, but also self-effacing and cute!” in thirty-word bits of text? It takes talent, kittens, of the sort I do not come by naturally.
Sometimes, I think we’d all be better off without modern technology. A three-page love letter, delivered by an actual mailman, takes more thought and carries more meaning than any text message ever could. A planned phone call on a land line would surely go better than an out-of-the-blue “I’m just sitting in traffic!’ cell conversation does.
Maybe I’m just a Luddite, readers, but the old ways don’t seem so sad and misguided, as they do sensible. I want a chest of letters to keep, instead of a file to save! I want to not worry about missing a flirtatious text message, while watching a movie! I want to not have experienced that awkward first phone call with Professor McGregor last night that has me writing this blog! Zelda darling, you may want to make space at the table, because I’m revising my opinions about cell phones and time travel.