July 25, 2006

The Evolution of Instant Messaging

My sister will sometimes call me up and tell me about an argument she’s having with her boyfriend. "So, I text-messaged him this. . . and he texted me back this. . . ," and so it goes. Usually I turn into my dad for a moment and respond with, "You know, someday they’re going to invent something where you can actually speak to each other real time, without typing. . . it’s going to be amazing." What blows my mind the most is that they "text" each other with a PHONE! An actual phone! Wouldn’t it be easier to just talk? Wouldn’t it make the argument get over with that much faster? I don’t get it.

Today we have eharmony.com and match.com and though many have success with this, I’m oh so thankful that I’ve never had to venture into this world. I’ve spent hours looking through potential suitors with friends and family, trying to help them weed out the bad ones, laughing at the pictures that some people put out there of themselves, really laughing when we come across people I graduated with, thinking to myself how lucky I am that I met my husband when I was just 19. I didn’t have to go there. Thank GOD for that.

When I was teaching, I had a web site for my students that had helpful links and homework assignments. Students and parents also had my email address in case they had questions or concerns. I soon learned what a mistake that was, as I would log on to the computer and instantly be bombarded with instant messages from students, "whassup mrs bbm? wha r u doin?" I did not like the casual opportunity this gave to some of my students to just treat me like one of their friends, and I really didn’t like the spelling and grammar that resulted. I’ve graded term papers that looked like that and they were horrifying enough.

I occasionally took advantage of IM to "talk" to friends who were into the whole IMing thing. I’ve just always preferred the phone. I love email, don’t get me wrong, because it’s like modern day letter writing. But instant messaging. . . I’m just not that into it.

It could be because I was soured on it long ago.

I’m going to date myself here, big time. There was once a time when instant messaging. . . . didn’t exist (gasp!). During my freshman year of college at the University of Pittsburgh, we had several computer labs. Mostly the labs at 2 a.m. were full of procrastinators who were tiredly typing away on that paper for Latin American History or something equally awful. But on one particular spring evening, I was discovering the beginnings of instant messaging.

Back then it was called "phone." At least, that’s what I think it was called. I was typing away at an assignment and this "phone" box popped up. Someone was saying hello. I didn’t know what to do at first. Eventually, I typed back a tentative "hello," and the conversation continued from there. This "phone" was an early version of instant messaging, pre-IM and pre-text messaging. The person on the other end was a student at Pitt as well. He was a chemistry major and he seemed. . . interesting.

For the next two weeks, I would trek on over to the computer lab close to my dorm and type away. I don’t know why it never occurred to me to speak on the real phone with him. It would have been a lot easier. Eventually he asked me out on a date, a real date because he lived off-campus and had a car. I accepted; my friends thought I was nuts.

We set up this plan. He was going to drive into the dormitory area in his red car. We were going to go to a movie. He told me he had light brown hair, was 6′ tall and attractive. He said he’d be wearing a collared blue shirt. I knew he was a student at Pitt, a senior because only students had access to the "phone" feature on the computer. I didn’t describe myself because I wanted an out, or so I said. I wanted to be able to disappear without him knowing I was even there if the need arose.

So, Friday evening came and I stood in the quadrangle waiting for my "prince charming." I was excited. I envisioned a young Nicholas Cage or "Dr. Carter," a Romeo, Casanova. . .

And then I saw him.

Before the hood of his car even entered the parking area, his nose did. It’s harsh I know, but it’s true. Gone were the aesthetically pleasing images of actors. Gone were the images of a literary "Prince Charming". There was only one literary image that came to mind. . .

Cyrano.

It was painfully obvious that we had very different ideas about what the term "attractive" meant. Being completely honest here, I have not been blessed with a small nose myself. I have my Dad’s nose (a smaller version of it, so he says), but I have always been a little uncomfortable with my nose. When I was in Junior High, I used to ask my parents for nose jobs instead of clothing or music when holidays rolled around. But I have NEVER seen a nose like that. NEVER.

My friends started to hoot, holler and laugh it up good. I froze. I wanted to run into my dorm and disappear into oblivion, never to "phone" him again. I had been on a bad blind date or two already; I really didn’t want another one. But, because I’m a somewhat nice person, I felt bad ditching him and stepped bravely out onto the curb. I hesitated and then waved. He smiled. It wasn’t pretty, and he totally wasn’t my type.

I got in the car and he stared at me. "You’re so BEAUTIFUL," he said. "Um, thanks," I said back and turned my head to stare out the window. He looked about 10 years older than me. He had a little pot belly that was very unbecoming. His nose. . .

You get the idea.

We drove to the theater. I knew he lied about how "attractive" he was, or deduced that he was delusional, or perhaps slightly blind, but the biggest lie was yet to be revealed.

At 5’9", I have always been one of the taller girls. I’m not one to slouch. I have never minded being one of the taller girls. I like it. I also like tall men, really tall men. My husband is 6’3". Most of the guys I dated before I met him were at least 6’1".

We got out of the car at the theater and there he was in all his glory, barely 5’7". What kind of tape measure was he using anyway? I towered over him, wearing flat shoes. I was furious. Looks that don’t make my heart race is one thing. I knew I wasn’t attracted to him; but sometimes, with time and conversation, people you wouldn’t normally think of as "attractive" become more so. I was willing to give him that chance. But someone who flat out lies to me. . . that warrants death.

I am not all about looks. I wanted to go to my senior prom with the guy who had the worst acne ever, because he could dance and we had fun together. Looks only last so long and take you so far. There has to be a connection. Of course, looks seem to help that connection. . . no one can deny that.

But lying is something I can not tolerate. Saying you’re 6′ tall when you’re actually 5" shorter than that is blatant. Did he think I wasn’t going to notice the discrepancy? When I first started dating my husband I told him that if he wanted to insure that I never ever speak with him again, then all he had to do was lie to me. I hate liars. "If you tell me you are wearing a green shirt, when in fact you are wearing a red shirt. . . and I find out about it. . . we’re done," I told him. Can’t. Stand. Liars.

So, back to my blind date from hell. I walk around the car and look down at him. I glared for a few seconds. "You said you were 6′ tall," I said. I walked towards the theater. His little legs tried to keep up with mine. Did I mention 90% of my height comes from my legs? We stood in line after we got our tickets and I was fuming. He kept saying, "You’re so beautiful." It was a little overkill. I’m o.k. I wouldn’t go as far as "so beautiful." It seemed to be his only line. "I’m sorry for being a lying pile of crap," would have warmed my heart more than trite flattery. A true Cyrano, with something subtantial behind the nose, he was not.

Then he tried to hold my hand. I ripped it away from his. "You lied," I said to him. "You’re so beautiful," he said back. "You lied," I repeated. Waiting in line continued like this.

He was a bona fide dork. It was a nightmare of a blind date, and the only person responsible for this was me. I could imagine all my friends back at the dorms, laughing until they cried, and then laughing some more. I was so annoyed with him, and more annoyed with myself.

As we sat in the theater, he tried to hold my hand again. I told him if he tried it one more time, he was going to have to move over a seat. He tried again. I moved over a seat. I am not a touchy-feely person with people I know and like, let alone with a lying pain in the ass.

After the movie was over, he asked if he could take me for something to eat. I told him to take me back to campus. I had him drop me off at a fraternity house where I knew my friends were hanging out. He asked if he could come along. "NO," I said. "Can I call you?" he inquired. "No," I said. He was seriously not getting it.

I found my friends and danced the rest of the night away. I drank some ~~cheap fraternity beer~~ koolaid. (Hi Mom!) I swore off blind dates forever. I swore off the "phone" forever. I swore off chemistry majors. I was done.

The next year in school, I met Mr. BBM. I was 19; he was 21. He was 6’3", and reminded me of Nick Cage and Dr. Carter.

He was a chemistry major. I was able to overlook his choice of majors.

I met him through real live friends, not the computer. We have never IM’d each other. We wrote each other sweet emails from time to time. Now they’re more like, "I’m up to my elbows in poop-when are you going to be done working already?" (Did I mention before that my husband works from home?)

I have never understood the IMing relationships or why someone would choose to IM instead of speak on the phone or in person. I may have a decent understanding of technology and I may have been there at the beginning of the IMing era. That doesn’t mean I like it or that I will ever understand it.

Then again. . .