Some high school girl practiced in the high drama of how to nag your friends 24/7 has confused my number with someone else’s, and sends me scads of text messages a day.
I don’t know what most of them say, because I’m one of those fuddy-duds who did not pay for text service on my phone plan, so it costs me .20 to open each one. But curiosity runs high, so I have opened about a half dozen of these gems. Here’s what I bought with my $1.40:
“Why r u txting Nick and not me?”
“Hey come on txt me back u no I can cu right?”
“I hate u”
and my favorite:
“IM YR WORST NIGHTMARE”
Yah, you got that right, kid. You didn’t have to yell at me to make that point.
The very savvy among you are wondering why I don’t just text her back. I have a pink Razor phone. It’s slim, fits nicely in a little pouch in my purse and the color makes me happy. And it has one of those flat keypads that make entering a phone number a studious exercise, full of wrong buttons and do-overs. I shudder to think of trying to use that thing to reach letters of the alphabet.
And I don’t happen to know how.
My solution would be to call the number (duh! It’s a phone! We still talk with our voices in some parts of this society) but my husband actually thought he would be more effective donning his “Mr. Mean” demeanor and threatening to kick her butt to St. Louis the next time she texts my number. My husband is also a guy, with that Y chromosome that means he procrastinates anything and everything.
And so the messages continue to pile up — and a part of me is hoping this kid will glean a valuable life lesson from the silence: Sometimes, dear, the problem really does lie with you and not the other person.
Oh, and you owe me $1.40.