Saturday, January 2, 2010

Can You Hear Me Now? GOOD.

Possibly one of the things that we hate most about being a woman (other than the PMS and the bloating and how hard it is to lose weight,) is that we have this innate desire to KNOW. Know what's good. Know what you're up to. Know what restaurant in town is now "hot." Know what our friend said to our other friend. Know whom is sleeping with whom. And most of all, know why you aren't calling or texting or emailing us back.

It makes me feel like such a traitor to my usually-relaxed personality when I realize I've turned into one of those harpy bitches staring at her phone like, "Um, hello? I sent you a message. RESPOND TO IT, PLEASE." Usually, I am not like this. Usually, it is my mother who is the one being like, "Have you heard back from so-and-so? When was the last time you talked to Nora? How's Matt? Have you called your grandmother lately?" while I sit in one of the barrel chairs and make the universal "calm down" motion with my hands, and be like, "Chilllllllll, mama. All in good time. People are busy. I'm not stressing, so why are you? If they have something to say, they'll call. Why would you call if there's nothing new to talk about?"


But sometimes, despite best efforts, we all succumb to this. As I outlined briefly in a recent previous post, I know that part of my personal issue with it comes from the fact that one day, there was no getting through to someone I cared about; the calls and texts and responses stopped for absolutely no reason, leaving me hurt and confused. The other part is just general woman-worry. Really, when it comes down to it, I really don't need to know THAT MUCH. Half of the texts I send are completely useless and don't demand real responses and are of the "I am bored and looking for you to distract me" variety. Which can be hard when their recipient isn't bored and isn't looking for distraction and in fact, YOU are distracting THEM.

But, the eternal harpy in me protests, really, how much time does it take to send a quick response back?


I should be the last person to be pointing fingers. Communication isn't one of my strong points in the first place, unless it suits me, as most of my friends, family, and men could tell you. I'm notoriously horrendous at A.) first and foremost, actually picking up my phone, B.) responding to messages, and C.) responding to my own texts, and yet, I find myself flipping a shit, or, ok, not really-- more accurately, cocking the eyebrow of heavy judgement and tapping my toe waiting for a timely response. It is so one-sided. I enjoy being in the wind; what I do not enjoy is the person I'm trying to get a hold of being in the wind. It's not being high-maintence-- I am not one of those girls you have to call every day, or even every other day. When this happened to me, I was baffled. You mean, people-- they actually call just to see how your day was? Really? I liked this. What I don't like is that feeling of mandatory check-in, like a telephonic prison-break. Call me every day expecting conversation time or for absolutely no reason, and you've got yourself onto the fast-track of getting sent straight to voicemail. Yes, I am guilty of it, too.

But having free time, usually something I don't allow myself because I consider it destructive in large and unstructured doses when paired with boredom, proves itself the downfall of many smart, perfectly sane women. Multiple times this break I have considered flinging the goddamn phone into a snowbank off the deck, because then, by god, it would have a legitimate reason not to ring, that I know about. (I have always been a big fan of practicing proactive offense. And proactive defense. And being passively-aggressive. It is one of my less charming and more aggravating quirks.) My advice to you is this: STEP AWAY FROM THE PHONE, and no one gets hurt. Leave it somewhere. Don't cart it around with you; the lack of ringing will be all that more apparent. Unfortunately, in East Gomorrah, my phone is the only contact I have with the outside, civilized world. I am chained to the thing I hate the most. Freud would have a field-day.

I try to be fair, really, I do. People are busy. There are far, FAR more important things to do than respond to a text, like, save children, be on vacation, not interrupt the rest of a movie theater, be out of service or like two of my closest friends be travelling internationally, be "busy" with a S.O, buy that $12 cashmere sweater before some other bitch does, actually focus on your job, give all your attention to your driving and not cause a 12 car pile-up, and celebrate a birthday or holiday with friends and family actually present and in front of you rather than staying glued to your cell phone. As Miss Molly Ford of Smart, Pretty, and Awkward noted, "People standing in front of you are always more important than a text message on your phone."

But still, like any other woman, there are times that I worry that I look like this chick, right here...

None of us mean to, I promise. None of us mean to nag, or complain, or make you feel like any less of a good friend or sibling or cousin or guy. (In fact, we are trained from the time we are still in diapers NOT to nag, because nobody likes a nag. And it's true.) It's not you-- it's us. It's us worrying why that guy never called after we gave him our number, or after a first date, or after he said he would, when really, it's clear. It's us worrying about how you used to call every day or text us for at least a half an hour every afternoon, and now that things are comfortable and you feel like you don't have worry about us running off with a new best friend/other sibling/new guy without you, you've stopped "just checking in." Well, here's the doozy: just when you are feeling comfortable enough to not have to talk to us everyday or every other day, we have gotten used to it. We've (wrongly) grown to depend on it. No one can keep that sort of instantaneous gratification up, and we are just starting to realize stamina's limitations. We're just feeling smug about the fact that we found someone who knows the importance of good communication, and then you go and pull the rug right out from under us, wrap your line of communication up in it, throw it off the wharf, and call it a day.

It's bizarre; I know. I suck at being a caring niece and granddaughter and even daughter and calling my family ANYWHERE near regularly enough, and I'm not the person my friends would ever call in the middle of an emergency for some quick action because lord knows I may not even pick up my phone or, god forbid, send them straight to voicemail, but I expect you to respond to me promptly, and what I am good at is casually staying in touch with the people, like, once a blue moon, and still having it be ok. Maybe that's what spoils me. I can not call my best friend or close friends from high school for months or even a year, and yet, when one of us finally does, we just pick it up right where we left off. Yet, with the people that you see regularly, you can't. That level of familiarity isn't there yet. You're still wondering "Does he like me? Does she like me? Do they miss me? Or are they off cavorting around town with my new replacement?" Women, as a general rule, love making worry-monsters in our brain. We're hard-wired for it. Some of us have managed to preform partial lobotomies-- years later, I'm rid of the "I'm being cheated on RIGHT NOW!" monster day-dream, but still working on sawing off the connection of the "They are having so much fun without me" one-- but we still all have that faint, wiggling suspicion that you really might be better off without us. Which would just suck.

But-- BUT-- good luck finding the woman who will actually admit to you that she is fine not hearing from you. Really. I've been thinking about this: is there any way to broach the topic without sounding like a completely whiny, insecure-- yes, nagging-- bitch? No. No, I really think there is no proactive way to approach this, save possibly the "destroying your own phone" tactic I've been contemplating, there is not. There is no possible way to say, "Um, hey, I've sent you a few text messages; not sure if you got them, because you haven't been responding to them...know you're busy, but it'd be nice to hear from you..." without sounding like a total ninny. (By the way, that is totally my speech. You can steal it if you really think it accomplishes anything. I don't think so.)

And so, women deal with it different ways. This is the one major deciding factor between Carrie Bradshaw and myself. As any half-assed Sex and the City watcher could tell you, she actually had the balls and/or lack of caring about sounding a little pushy or questioning to pick up the phone and make that sort of call. I, on the other hand, take the chicken-shit route and figure that I'll sleep on it and tomorrow, won't care so much. It works, in theory. Dorothy Parker immortalized the tango of phone hate and women best-- "It'd be such a little thing; just RING!"-- in her short story "A Telephone Call."

Parker wonders, much more eloquently than I ever could, (and most women echo,) "Suppose a young man says he'll call a girl up, and then something happens, and he doesn't. That isn't so terrible, is it? Why, it's going on all over the world, right this minute. Oh, what do I care what's going on all over the world? Why can't that telephone ring? Couldn't you ring? Ah, please, couldn't you? You damned, ugly, shiny thing. Damn you, I'll pull your filthy roots out of the wall, I'll smash your smug black face in little bits...Oh, what does pride matter, when I can't stand it if I don't talk to him? Pride like that is such a silly, shabby little thing. The real pride, the big pride, is in having no pride. I'm not saying that just because I want to call him. I am not. That's true, I know that's true. I will be big. I will be beyond little prides."

Would it kill you to call first and not wait on them? No. But it's always better if they do. Would it kill me to actually form and enunciate the words "I miss you"? Probably. So instead, I hope it's implied. Will we actually ever tell you when we've been acting like a crazy person by the phone? No. We'd voluntarily die by our own hand or painful self-inflicted torture first, screaming "I am an independent woman!" the whole way. Could we ever make that speech asking you if you've really been too busy to text? Probably not. We probably don't even need to. Deep down, we know that there's nothing to worry about. We trust you. We know that you probably won't discard us like a used tissue for the next friend/sibling/woman. Deep down, we just masochistically like to have something to fret over. When something is naturally easy, no drama involved, self-fretting is the only outlet we have. We try and hide it. Well, most of us do. This is pretty much the equivalent of letting my freak-flag fly high and proud. I hope a get a few "amens!" from ladies to back me up, here, so it's not just me. (It is SO not just me. In fact, it is RARELY me.)

So what can you do for us so that you don't have to worry that we're going Parker ourselves and sitting and staring at the phone and stewing in our own self-disgusted juices and you are secretly getting blasphemed for honestly being just busy? It's so simple. It's almost stupidly simple. When you do get two seconds, call or text back. Honestly. Nothing makes someone feel better than a call saying, "Hey, I am really not neglecting you; I really am busy." And nothing, in a pinch, fills that gap like a quick text back to let us know you really are paying attention and care and aren't off having crazy adventures with the entire kick-line of Rocket City Girls and a guy mysteriously named "Fuzz" while we are painting our nails for the fourth time for tortuous fun and trapped in the house in a blizzard counting snowflakes. We really want to look like this girl when we're talking to you, and not the other ones.

In the spirit of reciprocation, here's what we pledge to do for you:

- Always say "thanks for getting back to me," and let you know that it, and you, are really appreciated.

- Let you know how happy we are to talk to you. if we don't say it out-right, we promise to sound it.

- Not take your communication for granted.

- And never, ever lead on to the fact that two minutes before your ringtone started, we were holding our phone up and making crabby faces and mocking it like a child. "Really? Really? You're really going to play this game with me? Ring. Ring, or I will tear your face-plate apart and make your wiring squeal for mercy while I disassemble you. Ring, dammit! RI--SHIT!...Uhh, hello? Heyyy! How are you? No, no, don't worry about it; I'm really busy, too!"

So, love us. Love us, anyway. We are women; this is what we do; and we can't help it any more than you can help the fact you grow manly body hair and still think farting and poop-jokes are hilarious. And to each his or her own.

XOXO

...And it just rang. I am not even shitting you. Twice during the writing of this, I got those coveted responses. People. Stop being so good. (No, really-- keep it up, please! I don't like feeling needlessly neurotic. And I can say it; you can't.) If I could fill an entire post up with the words "Thank You" and get away with it, I would. You deserve to be appreciated.

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