Recently I discovered that I have thumbs. Wait. I mean I always knew I had thumbs, obviously, but I recently discovered that my thumbs were terrible at texting. I think it’s because my thumbs aren’t 17. They haven’t spent their entire existence clicking away on a phone. So when I text, I use a painstaking method called “hunt and peck” with one finger.
Clearly, not the most efficient method of communication.
It didn’t really used to matter, of course. In the olden days (and by that I mean last week), all my friends did this thing I like to call “talking.” We would call each other on the phone and we would speak to each other. And through the miracle of technology, we would have actual conversations even though we were far away, like across the street.
And then my friends discovered texting (yes, we are late to the party, what can I say; maybe next week we’ll discover online shopping). Anyway, once that happened, I realized my thumbs were completely and totally useless. My thumbs didn’t want to text about finding K-cups on sale at Nob Hill. My thumbs didn’t want to text the score of a Gilroy High football game. My thumbs wanted to sit on the end of my hands and look stupid.
Anyway, it took a lot of effort for me to tap out a complicated text like “hi.” So I was very excited when I got new glasses and could finally see that microphone thingy on my phone. It was like a miracle. I could talk into my phone and my phone would take on the terrible burden of texting people. It was wonderful! What could possibly go wrong with something so awesome?
Um, plenty. Plenty of things could go wrong.
First of all, I don’t think my phone understands the way I speak. Take the other day when I was having a conversation with a friend about going to Korean food for dinner (by the way, the place in Morgan Hill is incredibly good). Anyway here is our conversation as translated by my phone.
“In the car on the way for you soon. I forgot my glasses so I enjoy doing at text stead of LOL.” Seriously. That is what my phone texted.
What I was attempting to say was “I’m in the car on the way to Korean food. I forgot my glasses so I can’t see to text. LOL.” (OK, before you ask, I was a passenger, not the driver.)
Another conversation went like this: “I decided we need over your house on time so I went to the store and I got salad and blue cheese resting.” I have no clue what the first part was supposed to be but I was notifying a friend I was bringing salad and bread. And blue cheese that was apparently taking a nap before dinner.
Then there is the conversation where I told a friend I was making a side stop before meeting her in San Jose. “I might someplace at World Market that’s okay.” This, of course was followed by, “I’m on infringing on the road.” Yeah. I think those speak for themselves. Or not.
Of course, my family members aren’t immune to my texting either. The other day I texted Harry that I was leaving for my “doctor spot.” How in the world does the word “appointment” become “spot?” Seriously? How does that happen? And when I texted Junior a picture of friends and I at the movies with his girlfriend, it translated to “We are to chewing your girlfriend.” Which of course meant, “We are torturing your girlfriend.”
So obviously, modern methods of communication aren’t working out for me. It’s either that or the lady who lives in my phone and translates my texts hates me. Yes. That must be it. It certainly can’t be my fault. It’s all on her.
And my thumbs.
