Texting, texting, one, two, three...is this thing on?

My husband, Jonathan, and I are a bit slow to the latest trends in technology. Well, Jonathan is. I am resigned to ride the waves of his reluctance. All thanks to his parents, who instilled in him the "if it ain't broke, don't fix it and for goodness sake, why replace it with something more modern" mentality. Their adherence to said philosophy is evidenced by their possession-- amongst other petrified artifacts-- of Moses' microwave. I am convinced they unearthed it during an archaeological dig in the Middle East, though they swear it's early Sears.


Anyhow, due to his upbringing and my lack of applicable funds, when we got hitched we compiled an impressive array of antiquated machinery: a stack of randomly functioning VCR's; three Jurassic Era televisions; a dot matrix printer and a dot com-less computer (a Packard Bell boasting a whopping eight megabytes of RAM); several telephones with actual cords; a couple boom boxes-- the upgraded kind bearing double tape decks; a set of gigantic, free-standing man speakers; a real live record player (including the vinyl versions of We Are The World; Breakdance: Learn to Moonwalk, Electric Boogie and Headspin; and Fonzie's Favorite Happy Days Hits). Oh, and a wind-up clock with an alarm designed to wake up astronauts. From Earth.

Did I mention we both hoofed it to work, uphill both ways, in the snow?

Just kidding. Hubby was the proud owner of an eleven-year-old Honda Civic hatchback he called, with enviable affection, Red Roxanne. At the current age of eighteen (four hundred ninety seven in car years), his mistress--I mean, faithful companion-- could claim nearly three hundred thousand miles, six mufflers and what used to be a paint job.

Dare I exclude the loosely interpreted "furniture" Jonathan attempted to plant in the middle of our living room? Namely, a circa-1970 couch (under the cushions, Afro picks a plenty) and his grandfather's coffee table that survived two-- yes, two-- floods. If you even bumped the thing, pieces fell off. "It's not so bad," he'd argue. "Look how far it's come."

To which I'd reply, "That's because it was made from remnants of the ark!" (Interestingly, while we were away on our honeymoon, our thoughtful four-year-old niece decided to give us the ultimate wedding gift and reconstructed the relic using two entire rolls of Scotch Tape. It was a marked improvement. But I digress.)

Though we were just finalizing our transition from cassettes to compact discs, we'd held fast for the last bus out of VCR-ville (didn't purchase a DVD player until friends staged an intervention to address our tenacious attachment to video tapes). But by far, the leap to mobile communication was our most daunting. To ease Jonathan's apprehension at becoming instantly accessible, as well as his fears of being dislodged from the nineteen eighties, we chose to purchase phones from Nextel. Their primary model featured a nifty device that allowed for correspondence with the push of a single button. It was enough like an old school Walkie-Talkie to sell my husband. I was convinced he'd revert to childhood and I'd find him crouching behind the love seat with that thing, dressed like G.I. Joe and shouting something about me being a Cobra operative.

My own slowness to integrate became painfully obvious when a co-worker, who happened to be a fellow church member, sent me a text message one day. We'd always been pals, but team teaching in our one room church school had deepened our friendship. When my cell alerted me to a missed call following class one afternoon, I discovered it was actually a text from her. I didn't even realize my phone had that capability.

I was excited, but have never, even to this day in text-crazed 2009, sent a text message. If you were a super-villain and threatened to eradicate chocolate unless I wrote and transmitted one, I would personally be responsible for the obliteration of the most coveted substance in the universe (and subsequently, the mental unhinging of ninety-five percent of the female population). In other words, my brain is wholly devoid of texting know-how. I get LOL and OMG and BTW. But that's A-L-L.

My friend's message-- a heartfelt declaration of her high regard-- so moved me that I attempted to respond, but eventually abandoned the effort in fear I might accidentally call China (which still wouldn't cost as much as sending a text). My e-mailing skills were much sharper, so I crafted on my computer an equally tender endearment for my new BFF. I was quite pleased as I hit the SEND button, still revelling in her complements.

As is the case, in many instances, when a person has released information into cyberspace they cannot retrieve, I was washed with sudden dread that the message may not have been for me. After all, this girl had never texted me before. Nor had she witnessed me doing so on my phone to someone else, and texting was still new enough to not be a service one would expect most people to have. No, I convinced myself. How could she have mistakenly sent that note to me?

Three embarrassing days later, when my friend had neglected to mention my sentiment-soggy e-mail, I concluded her note was not intended for me. Turned out she wasn't so tech-swift, either. She'd meant it for the lucky individual who got the slot next to mine in her contacts list, of which I was humbly reminded about six more times. I can only hope that Alyson eventually became aware of my friend's admiration, and that she made it to that darned baby shower.

Notwithstanding the computer as a whole, I submit that some advances in electronics are not worthy of the hassle. However, I am confident that I could successfully operate an iPod. It's a risk I'm willing to take. With my husband, we'll be comfortably settled on the fourth quadrant of Saturn before I'll ever get that privilege. And by then, we'll be able to watch movies on the inside of our eyelids. But that's okay. When the Zorks come for dinner capsules, I'll proudly display our home entertainment system comprised of surround sound, Blu-ray and a high-def, flat screen TV. Perhaps they'll call us retro. According to my teenage gal-pals, retro is way cool.

Hey...maybe we're more hip than I thought!