September 28, 2006
Last night I was laying in bed text messaging my husband. The lure of text messaging has long escaped me. If you want to talk to me pick up the phone and call me, like we used to do back in the old days. Or email me, even better.
Rob was enroute to NYC for an early morning meeting, having delayed his departure until after the boys’ baseball practice. The tunnels make phone reception spotty, and so we channeled our inner adolescent selves and sent text messages back and forth.
That’s love, right there. I am not sure how you photograph that. The weekends given up, the adult pursuits that are left by the wayside, the leaving work early so that you can coach the team, the working late on other nights to make up for it. Riding the train into the city at 11:00 at night rather than miss any of it.
Love is spending an hour text messaging back and forth, typing with your thumbs like a 12 year old girl arranging a sleep-over, when a 2 minute phone conversation could have covered it all, and then some.
Love is still wanting to talk to the person you married the very last thing before you fall asleep, even after 15 years.
(visit karen at chookooloonks and add your link to your contribution for Love Thursday.)
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