in celebration of text messages

I am really bad on the phone. I lie all the time on job interviews and in cover letters and claim to have good telephone manner. Or at least I don’t explicitly say anything to the contrary. But, the reality is that I’m a stuttering, rambling mess who gives people about fourteen minutes more information than they wanted and says “yes” when I really mean “oh, I wasn’t listening, could you repeat the question and this time I’ll try to pay attention.”

Now, I seem to remember that in my early high school years, I used to spend hours on the phone. Hours. Just talking. I cannot even imagine what we must have talked about. I think that, in hell, the playback on those phone conversations is playing on an endless loop. “You know that song? ‘Have You Ever?’ That totally is how I’m feeling right now….” “I totally know how you feel.” And so on. In any case, that sort of tapered off once I was able to drive a car and actually interact with people. And really, that cannot be what people imagine when they think of “good telephone manner.”

And, the only thing harder than being good on the phone is being good at voicemail. I chalk a lot of it up to the pressure of a monologue. On the phone, there is a natural ebb and flow that keeps you from having to remember all your lines at once. “Hi yes, may I please speak to Ryan?” And while that is going on, I can take a minute to remember my name. And somewhere in the “how are you this morning” and “oh great, thanks for asking” I can try to find my own ass and the reason I have the phone held up to my face. But with a voicemail, suddenly all of that pressure is on at once. While I am scrambling to come up with a concise version of my conversation, I also have to remember what my extension is and when would be a great time for you to call me back. And somewhere in that mad, unexpected dash, a vital piece of information is left behind. Or worse yet, thrown in at the last minute, like trying to stir the sugar into an already mixed cake batter on its way to the oven. “By the way, this is Jesse!” click.

Then came along a brilliant invention: the text message. I love it. I love it so much. There is the necessary concision, the subtle politics, the timing of it all. Don’t yet have the answer? Text back a “?” and give yourself a minute to figure it out. Don’t actually have something to say? Text back “:)” and you’re good to go. In a real conversation, and especially, on the phone, smiling in response to a comment makes you a jackass.

But, the best part of all is in that awkward world of dating. If I give you my number, and you text me—Thank GOD is what I think. Maybe that’s an atypical reaction, but there is nothing worse than the long pauses that happen with a pre-first-date phone call. Let’s save that for dinner, buddy. Give me a when and where and a winky face, and I’m good to go.

So maybe not the solution for the professional phone call, text messages remain a lifesaver. So, please don’t be offended if I text you. You didn’t want to talk to me on the phone anyway. Believe me.