by Ken Craig (bio)
image via strollerderby
I was recently the recipient of a most intriguing text. It was 10:18 in the P.M. when my cell phone vibrated in my right, front pants’ pocket. Instinctively, I demanded everyone stop talking or moving around or carrying on with any frivolity and shenanigans, so I could give the proper respect and attention to my incoming text.
I was recently the recipient of a most intriguing text. It was 10:18 in the P.M. when my cell phone vibrated in my right, front pants’ pocket. Instinctively, I demanded everyone stop talking or moving around or carrying on with any frivolity and shenanigans, so I could give the proper respect and attention to my incoming text.
But I was suddenly perplexed by what I read:
Hi Ally. Just wanted to say hi. I hope it’s not too late. Justin.
Now, for those of you keeping score at home, my name is not Ally. Never has been. Not even to my most intimate friends. And the only Justin I know who would text me is my brother. And he rarely calls me ‘Ally.’ And he knows I keep late hours, so unless he was texting to ask me if it was too late to apologize for breaking into my locked trunk while I was out of the country for two years on my LDS mission and subsequently losing not one but TWO mix tapes I had made before leaving, then I couldn’t see why he would be asking me if it was “too late.” (And no, Justin, it’s not late to apologize for that. I forgive you. Whew – I’ve been waiting for that one! Thank goodness that’s over. Water under the bridge, brother. Water. Under. The Bridge.)
Anyway, I immediately surmised that this fellow had the wrong number. So as a common courtesy, I simply typed:
Of course it’s not too late. Come on over. And giggled to myself at the thought of Justin showing up to Ally’s residence, unannounced and late in the evening. But then I thought, “This Justin character (if that is his real name) has my cell phone number. He could really make things annoying for me. Best I just leave him alone.” So I deleted my original message and went with the safer:
Justin who?
From eHarmony, he clarified.
Wrong number. I answered back. I’m not Ally.
Wow, he texted a final time. She gave me a wrong number. Don’t I feel like an [Bible swear word].
Oh, the humanity! He had actually trusted that this woman had given him her real number. Now, I’ve never been on eHarmony; however, I have to assume that of all the millions of phone numbers exchanged over that site, 98% to 112% of them are fakes.
I thought of sparing his feelings and helping him to feel like maybe he was dodging a bullet with Ally. Something like:
Just kidding, Justin. This is Ally. I’m sorry, but it IS too late. I’ve gone back to my boyfriend. He has been there for me every time I’ve gotten out of rehab. Also, we love the same Hilary Duff movies! And even when I pistol-whipped him one time for making that comment about Oprah, he forgave me so quickly. So, sorry Justin, but maybe in a different life.
But again, he had my cell phone number. Plus that would have taken too much time to text. Plus I am exceptionally busy as of late, trying to recreate two awesomely assembled mix tapes, circa 1990, that my brother may or may not have lost and/or stolen. (For which I totally forgive him.)
