Have you ever found yourself incessantly checking your phone, anxiously skimming your notifications for a text from... a certain someone? Maybe your heart races a little every time you feel a buzz in your pocket—prickling with nervous energy at the idea that it might be them. Only for your hopes to be dashed, the proverbial balloon burst, at the sight of a “two for Tuesdays” Domino’s message.
You’re left wondering: what on earth could be occupying them so deeply that they can’t take (less than) five minutes out of their busy schedule to text you back? Are they in the Death Zone of Mount Everest? Did all their devices burst into flames, leaving them stranded in the analogue world? Maybe you should write them a letter? Fax them? Turn up at their house?
The answer is, of course, simple; no, you shouldn’t turn up at their house; no, they’re probably not on a life-or-death mission, or about to break a Guinness World Record for lowest screen-time ever recorded by a twentysomething. They’re probably sitting at home, scrolling on their sofa—just like you. They’ve probably seen your notification as it interrupted their swiping and made a mental note to “circle back” later. Then “later” turns from hours into days, days into weeks, sometimes even weeks into months. By then, you’ve come to one of two conclusions: they’re dead or they hate you. You disgust them.
I am “them”. I am the person who takes three to five business days to respond to a simple text message. I operate on postal timelines and can’t keep pace with the digital world.
My poor texting hygiene has caused tension in my friendships and has arguably hindered my dating life. Many prospective partners have lost patience, slipping through the net.
Really, though, it’s not a hindrance. It’s become part of a self-selection process; ultimately, I’m not going to change overnight and become the kind of person who replies instantly, who listens to every voice note, and heart-reacts to every Instagram reel you send me. I can’t be bothered to come up with elaborate excuses as to why I’ve taken three weeks to respond to one of my Hinge matches. Because the truth is, I haven’t been so busy that I didn’t have time to respond. I just view texting as akin to emailing, a chore to be ticked off my to-do list. I even have “text five people back” on my habit tracker, to encourage myself to keep on top of my DMs, instead of letting the notifications pile up like dirty dishes in the sink.
If I could have it my way, communication would either be face-to-face or via handwritten letters
That is not to say that I view my relationships, my friendships, or prospective partners as a chore. I adore the people in my life (and often wax lyrical about them in this very column). If I could have it my way, our only means of communication would either be face-to-face or via handwritten letters. Messages are better when writing them is a cute, thoughtful, meditative exercise—not frantic and pressured and rushed, like replying to people between trains or, heaven forbid, from the toilet.
Our phones already demand so much of our attention. We all know this; there are thousands of think-pieces on the malaise that smartphones have brought to modern society. So why do we also expect people to drop everything to reply to us?
I’ve had too many conversations recently with friends who’ve fretted over Hinge matches—or people they’ve been on one date with—taking 24 hours to respond to a text. They’ve mentally time-stamped the reply-times, running a data analysis on how time-taken-to-respond must in some way correlate to how-into-me-they-are. Correlation is not causation, I say.
I occasionally take more than 24 hours to respond to my boyfriend, several days to reply to best friends—weeks to reply to my own father. That does not mean I don’t love, value or cherish these people. What it does mean is: I hate texting.
Being friends with me means accepting that you’ll hear from me when you hear from me. And, in the meantime, just know that with each passing day your unopened message causes me more and more guilt.
I’m not being a dick (and “they” probably aren’t either, whoever “they” are). I just hate my phone. It’s no deeper than that.
