I don't text. At all. Ever.
Well, that's no longer a true statement. I took The Kid to my sister Leah's high-school production of "The Wedding Singer," which he loved deeply (but then again, he tends to love anything with singing, dancing, and men being dropped into garbage cans in it). But then I sent The Kid home with his loving Mimi, Pawpaw, and Gigi whilst I went out on the town (St. Louis) with both my sisters and some of their friends. My sister Hannah was driving, I had no child with me, and it was Saturday night. I had two, count them, 2, glasses of wine.
Then, on the drive home (at 12:30 at night--WAY past my bedtime), in the dark and rain, Hannah's iPhone buzzed. Her loving husband Steve was texting her. She handed me the phone and told me to text him back.
"Um . . ." I said, knowing disaster was in the air.
"It's easy!" she insisted. "Just tell him it's you, I'm driving, and I love him."
Easy, I say? You judge for yourself by attempting to read this actual, real, unedited transcript of my first time texting.