by Andrea Zimmerman // Drake University

 
It’s 2:30 a.m. My phone rests in my hand as I wait for the familiar notes of Justin Timberlake’s “My Love” to signal that I have a text message. Last weekend, I met a law student at a local bar. We exchanged phone numbers, and I texted him the next day with a casual “What’s up?” It’s now two days later, and still no return text. Oh well, I think, it could be worse: at least he doesn’t have a lame, rambling voicemail of mine saved on his phone to laugh about.

It was just one of many times I’ve leaned on the crutch of text messaging to get me through the otherwise awkward early weeks of a budding relationship—a time normally marred by stilted small talk and fumbling phone conversations. Believe me, I know that texting is the furthest thing from deep, unbridled romance. But it’s just so easy, so safe; I can concoct a winning message in no time and shake off a losing response just as fast.

And I’m not the only one doing it. I see other students en route to class, even in class, ignoring blackboards and traffic lights to focus on the one-inch square of screen in their palms. But while texting a lab partner to say you’re running late is simple and convenient, pursuing a hot and heavy romance in the language of T9 is a whole other story. We’re no longer just texting; we’re sexting. And sometimes it’s dirtier—and more complicated—than the real thing.

Take my friend Jess, a bona fide sext goddess. After a one-week spring fling with an older guy, she parted ways with him, only to launch into a full-fledged sext relationship upon her return. We’re talking XXX. The seemingly playful “What are you wearing?” turned into “Tell me what you want me to do to you,” which turned into things I will not write lest my father ever read this. Jess could get any guy she wants, yet the post-vacation weeks found her lurking in the corners of bars jumping (literally) when her cell vibrated. She couldn’t get enough of her text-lovin’ fling and his sexy—and sort of creepy—late-night messages. “Why don’t you just call him?” I finally asked. Looking horrified, she said, “We’d have nothing to say to one another.”  Exactly.

Maybe texting was always the doom of an AOL Instant Messenger generation: these are the same kids who spent middle-school years in front of computer screens during the wee hours, always just a click away from learning friends’ and crushes’ deepest secrets (or sexiest 13-year-old thoughts). Now they’ve turned to text messaging for a similar rush. Like AIM, texting feels pleasingly illicit, as if we know this isn’t what we’re supposed to do with our machines.

But a dependence on texting can complicate early courtship. Let’s say my law boy had returned my message—what next? Maybe we’d keep texting back and forth in the pre-dawn hours, maybe the texts would turn salacious, maybe I’d decide I kind of like him. But even if I did, it wouldn’t mean much. In the nebulous realm of texting, there is always the possibility that he’s consulting his funnier friends for a good line, or that his auto spelling function is masking his poor grasp of the English language.

For now, my friends and I appreciate the comfort and thrill of the mobile romance, but it’s a bit harder to imagine us cackling over mispunctuated pick-up lines—and sexting fiendishly right back—at age 28, 35, 40. I’d like to think I’ll have landed in a real relationship by then, the kind where we do our pillow talk face-to-face rather than screen-to-screen. But hell, if a few more decades of texting means I’ll never have to make awkward small talk on my cell again, I’ll hold off on intimacy until I’m 50.

Yesterday, my phone rang. It was the law student. I stared at the screen in disbelief. I stared for so long I missed the call. Call me back, the voicemail said. So I texted him.

Andrea Zimmerman is a senior journalism major at Drake University. She is grateful her parents still pay her cell phone bill.