My niece finds me hysterical. "She actually re-reads texts before she sends them!" Hooting laughter.
Beware, my sweet.
I hate, loathe, despise texting. It's ideal if one is firing back factual statements. Where are you? How much cocoa for your brownie recipe? What time is the wedding called for?
But for light banter? Kill me.
I'm all to aware of the nuances that are all to necessary but absent with textual communication: body language and voice intonation. The most innocent of remarks can come off as sneeringly snarky when left to the hastily typed form.
When I have been kidnapped by a textual conversation, I'm a wreck. I type. Re-type. Delete. Edit. Emoji. Delete again. Edit edit edit. Delete. Cry. Emoji emoji emoji. Send. Cry some more. Pray for a response that reflects I didn't insult the other side in some way that I couldn't predict despite my agonizing.
"The Five Stages of Ghosting Grief" by Rachel Fields perfectly depicts that torture. Anxiety can snowball from "Why hasn't he texted back?" to "I'm unlovable and no one wants me and I'll die alone."
Also, if trapped in a text loop, that means I have to keep an ear out for the damn thing constantly. It's the proverbial monkey on my back. I walk away from my desk for a minute: Quick, check the phone! Someone else's device chirps: Quick, check the phone! Does, like, everyone have that pleasant Note notification? *PIIING*? I had to change mine to something less pleasant but more unique so I wouldn't keep scrabbling though my bag for naught.
My life so much freer before. And I was more relaxed, that's for sure.