Posted on July 9, 2009 - by Rasham

E-Dating is E-ventually Exhausting

It can be the best of times; it can be the worst of times, when you are involved in a relationship via cell phone technology.

Modern cell phones are a powerful tool for intercommunication: the capabilities of the most common devices can send messages instantly and offer direct access to e-mail and other online accounts. News is reported and received almost as soon as it occurs; conversations can be continued on throughout the day without a ‘hello’ or a ‘goodbye’. It’s a social instrument which can be manipulated and abused, offering shade from emotion and sensory expression. It presents everything neatly and in an organized manner, one word after another, with the bonus of allowing you to safely edit and spell check your entries prior to sharing. With text messaging and virtual mail, there is no ‘on the spot’: you always have time to censor your responses, to absorb the content of the message received and craft a rebuttal to depict yourself as accurately as your verbal skills allow.

How brilliant it is, that whilst I engage in the mundane rituals of life I may perpetuate a secret meeting with my lover who resides across purple mountains majesty. I preserve our entire relationship in the archive of our phone chat, comfortably resting in the butt pocket of my favorite jeans. Like a sweet, sweet drug my phone has become, tempting me with its subtle vibrations and quirky ring tones. When I am in a state of boredom, I slip the secret password beneath the badge of my fabricated persona and steal a peek at an unopened virtual letter. When I am awkwardly assembled between a disgruntled boss and an outraged customer, or when I simply want a taste of his ‘textual’ sense of humor I grasp my cellular device and feast my eyes upon those delectable words: ‘new text message’. He has become the phone and the words in his e-mails: without them, I feel disconnected from his fleshy form.

What is happening to me? Is it that wonderful a long distance liaison that I truly am drawn to his every printed word and minimally expressive emoticon? Or have I who punish all who openly flaunt their virtual addictions become addicted to digital dating?

Relationships have evolved parallel to technology. E-dating, e-mailing, instant messaging, pop-up invites, internet status updates, portfolios and e-files: it seems that although many people claim to find true love through such portals, these avenues of meets and mingling only serve to complicate and frustrate the owners of lonely hearts. We put ourselves out there in the web of social networking to be viewed and reviewed. Unlike a traditional first date, where the mean of rejection is a lack of follow-up or a verbal ‘this just isn’t going to work’, the world of technology hosts a thousand different ways to execute rejection. The mere thought of potential repudiation is enough to turn an eligible profile into a neurotic obsession, and time soon finds me reading into the font of perfectly printed words, studying them for any trace evidence which could offer insight into the disposition of their emotional origin.

Because the nature of computer dialogue is bland, it’s a grueling assignment to interpret the words in such a way as to attach meaning to a message. Words are dry when they are simply words on a screen, and although they may, as such, lack in value, it’s how the word is expressed which is relevant to how it was meant to be understood. In the virtual world, it is also that which must be deciphered. This can lead to many misinterpretations, and surmounting paranoia and stress if performed by someone, say, like me. Negative feedback, missing punctuation, delayed responses, periods instead of exclamation marks at the end of vivid sentences, an emoticon at the wrong emoti-moment: all of these become clues which serve to support the self inflicted theory that the person with whom I am virtually engaged isn’t interested.

After suffering through a devastating time warp of technological indifference, I think to myself, ‘maybe I should text him to find out. Maybe I shouldn’t. Maybe I should just text ‘hi’, or send a picture, or text ‘hey’ (insert pic) add ’.

There are also those rare defining moments when I courageously take a risk, sending a blurb as bold and blunt as my curiosity and angst, hoping to dramatically alter the natural course of the message chat in a more favorable direction. It isn’t well received by my now disoriented accomplice in computer-chat crime, and I am powerless to excuse myself. Oh, crap. What have I done? Delete? Erase?…too late. The words have left their mark in history; they are permanently imprinted in the fibers of our cell phone marriage.

It’s exhausting. I have the option of calling, but as I remove the phone from the grip of my opposable thumbs, it occurs to me just how frightened I am to hear his voice. By calling I would be surrendering my weapons of spell check and auto revision. I would be exposed, naked; my voice might reveal things about me previously concealed by my Palm powered identity. In text I am simple, black and white and easy to understand. I am without my feminine insecurities and hormonal syndromes, and as attractive as there are adjectives to describe.

Oh what a wonderful world I have built for myself. If only this were true: instead I sit here staring at my cell phone, which is turned upside down on the table, a false declaration of my independence from the touch screen which ignites waves of adrenaline each time it glows that soft bluish green upon receipt of a message. I pretend to ignore its blinking reception signal, urging me to take a gander at the welcome window from the corner of my eye. My will is strong and the cell phone remains in its shallow grave; however, I must check my e-mail, then my Facebook account, followed by MySpace and AIM: all empty! For how much longer can I deny the spell cast upon me by romantic internet affairs and its text message mafia?

And worse; it seems as though my self-esteem suffers at the threshold of all this ambiguity. My heart sinks at the sight of an empty inbox. I didn’t want to resort to such measures, but maybe I should send a naked picture of myself…oh no. Something has to change.

I know what I must do: break up with my cell phone and cancel my stale dating accounts. I must abandon QWERTY and downgrade to a less digital form of dating. Although the benefits of internet alternatives offer supreme hospitality to a single twenty-something in the city, the consequences have been proven to torture my female inquisitive brain. I wonder…what were relationships like before technology stole our hearts?

Relationships were organic, built upon a foundation of meet-‘n’-greet soil. There was never any paranoia precipitated by the allure of match making web genies and the promise of love at first click. People met on the streets, in cafés, at local pubs. They wrote love letters, their personalities bleeding into the words on the page with every unique stroke of the pen. They danced not to mp3’s, but to the dynamic blend of ethereal orchestras. He stood before her, and she stood before him; they were grounded from the very beginning; the first impression was naturally contaminated by the beautiful truth of a real connection.

And as much as it dazzles me to be able to showcase my literary love blurb talents, I am unable to compromise honesty and straight forwardness for love in an alternate dimension. The prospect for disappointment and unnecessary hurt is a big turn-off; it’s a risk I simply cannot take.

Perhaps it is just that I am unwilling to continuously update my technological image in an effort to seem more available and more ‘the best things of me’. I must remind myself of the fact that I have a voice, I am three dimensional, and I exist in a world of brilliant color, where words have meaning in many different styles of language. However difficult this breakup will be, I take comfort in knowing that in the least I can save myself the cost of unlimited texts and the forsaken pain of thumb cramps.

(That’s not to say that I am retreating into the solitude of single life. For a typical Piscean the pursuit of romance is always worth the wager; hope endures, and love conquers all!)