I was especially aggressive about warning the folks with whom I regularly swap secrets and juicy personal stories. "Text me back and confirm that you got this," I demanded of them. "I do not want you sending my son into therapy. That's my job."
"So don't text him this?" responded my friskiest friend, shooting me an elegantly framed still life of her unclothed bottom.
"No, don't text him that," I responded. "It's very pretty, though. I'm keeping that picture forever."
There have been a few minor, harmless text mix-ups, but they're quickly sorted out when Jack responds and pastes in the boilerplate I wrote for him instructing people that this is his number now and directing them to my new phone.
The best mix-up, though, came when a student I hadn't heard from in many months wrote me a long text to tell me what a great job I did teaching my media writing class, and what a big difference I had made for that crop of young 'uns.
Jack read me the text that afternoon when I picked him up from school.
"Mrs. Fortune, I just want you to know how much we all appreciate what you did for us," he read to me.
"Wow," I said. "That's just awesome to hear. Your mom is a media-writing-teaching badass, young man."
"Uh-huh," he grunted. "So can I delete this now?"
Anyway, today's TFP column is about adventures in cell phone swapping and the eternal nature of the cell phone number. I hope you like it.
And please don't text me any pictures of your butt without confirming the number first. Thanks.
|Waiting on some misdirected texts from middle-aged women.|