R. Sumi Matsumoto

Favorite Teacher

You probably don’t remember me. I know you have taught hundreds of students a year for decades. I’m just one of those faces in the sea of past pupils. By now it was years ago that you taught me. Perhaps you’d recognize me if you saw my name and picture in the newspaper. You’d see my face, older but much the same, and it might light up something in the back of your mind. My name underneath would help put the pieces together. With time it might all come back. But I’m sure you wouldn’t know me if I just walked past you in the supermarket. Perhaps you wouldn’t remember me exactly but you would recognize me as a former student, or you would just assume as much after the many years teaching. But I remember you. I will always remember you, because you were the best teacher I ever had.

Movies always paint these romanticized relationships between teachers and their students. Bad teachers are either spitefully strict with sharp memories to scold you for your childish misdeeds years later or lazily incompetent: calling students by the wrong name and stating that a stop sign has six sides. Good teachers are the likes of Stand and Deliver’s Jaime Escalante or the quintessential John Keating of Dead Poets Society. These role model teachers don’t just inspire their students, they connect with them. The connections aren’t just academic; they are personal connections. Movies prime students to believe that the best, life-changing teacher is the one they go to for counsel, who bolsters their confidence outside the classroom. An amazing teacher is a lifelong mentor.

But that is not how the real world works: at least, not all the time for everyone. Sometimes that connection happens. I assume. I honestly don’t know because I never experienced it. Have you? Did you have a student that made a huge impact on your life? That you took under your wing? Teachers, for me, were always teachers, never confidants. That’s why you—the best teacher I ever had—probably don’t remember me. Even if you do remember me, I would be surprised if you knew that I consider you my favorite teacher.

I never gave you reason to pay attention to me. I never thought to connect with you outside of the boundaries of the predetermined script between students and teachers. I never needed advice that I couldn’t get from other, more permanent fixtures in my life. I never struggled with motivation or focus. Academic success never eluded me. Nor was I notably intelligent beyond my age. I was a keep your head down, good-enough grades kind of student. Does that somehow disqualify me from having a special relationship with a teacher? Or was I never the sort to reach out and seek a deeper connection? Did I only need to ask?

It would have been nice to have that deeper connection with you. Of course that would have involved recognizing you as the best teacher I would ever have while I was your student. A part of me knew from day one that you would be my favorite. The other part didn’t come until years later when I had seen my education through. But I don’t regret not having that beyond-the-classroom relationship with you. The cynic in me thinks that it wouldn’t live up to the movie idealizations anyway. I just wish you knew how much of an impact you made on me.

Your impact wasn’t picture-perfect. You didn’t open my eyes to a subject I never knew I was good at or to a career I never thought I could have. You didn’t forever change the trajectory of my life. You taught my least favorite subject, and your class didn’t change my feelings about it. Your impact is removed from academic pretense. You were passionate about teaching, not what you taught. At least, that is how it seemed to me. You were amazing regardless of the subject. You became my gold standard for who a teacher should be, how a teacher should act, and what expectations a teacher should have. Your examinations were thorough but fair. Your intentions were clear. You taught what mattered—what people ought to understand—not what fit within the unique expectations of academia. You controlled the classroom while allowing your students to take ownership of their work and education.

More than anything else, you saw me. It was small stuff. It wasn’t special to me—it was just who you are and how you teach. And because it wasn’t special to me, I loved you all the more for it. At the same time, I doubt you know or understand how much those small gestures meant to me. So I’m writing this letter to say thank you. Thank you for being you. Thank you for being a wonderful, thoughtful, passionate teacher. It may not seem obvious to you, because you aren’t marked by grand gestures or swooning students, but you are appreciated for what you do.

You valued quality over quantity. In the most polite, subtle way you discouraged those who spoke only to hear their own voice. You did not reward the loudest opinion. You encouraged thoughtful questions and synthesis, not regurgitation. You focused on comprehension not rote memorization. You taught concepts not answers.

Those aren’t the sorts of things a person wins awards for. They often go as unnoticed as they go unacknowledged. But I’m writing you to say I acknowledge them. I value the work you do. Don’t ever change. You made me realize how artful and skilled good teaching is. Good teachers aren’t marked by one student or even by one classroom. Good teachers are experts in teaching everyone.

I simply want you to know that I will never forget you. I will never stop appreciating you. Although the exact content of your class has faded from my memory after so many years, you have not. I am writing this small note as positive reinforcement. I am writing to say that I hope you know how uniquely amazing you are. You truly are one in a million.

High School Relationship

I’m not perfect, even though I actively pretend I am. I cannot fairly blame the fact that I was young and dumb, even though those things didn’t help. I did love you, though I haven’t for years. It’s awkward between us. We left things in a mess. Sometimes I still wish you’d call me. You probably deleted my number years ago. It’s not your fault.

When we knew each other, we felt so grown up. We would split bottles of wine that you hid under your bed. We would make reservations for dinner dates. We wrote each other deep, emotional poems as proclamations of love or regret. We would talk about settling down and having ambitious careers. We brandished emotional scars we were too young to have like trophies. We talked about Phillip Glass and David Lynch like they were Beethoven and Hitchcock. We thought we were in a forever kind of love.

Looking back, we seemed so young. At least, I feel like I was. I knew so little because I had experienced so little. I did not have a fully formed understanding of the world, let alone myself. I can’t imagine you were any more mature than I was. We mistook being mature for our age with being mature. I think part of the reason I liked you was because you shared that delusion with me. But we also made so many mistakes because of that delusion. We said things we didn’t understand the meaning of. We clung to deep seeded opinions that were formed out of thin air. Now, after so many years have passed, it all seems so silly. I see it for how childish it was.

I remember how long it took for us to get together. You pined after me for so long, but I was staunchly against high school relationships. I thought they were temporary: the sort of thing that lasted only few weeks, maybe months, and was just for show or sex. I wanted the real thing, though I didn’t know what that actually meant. I liked you, you liked me, but of course it wasn’t that simple. I’m sorry I thought that true love couldn’t be that easy. I swear teenagers make up drama just to feel more alive. Was that just me? I’m sorry I pushed back and said no when I thought yes. I was confused and proud. I mixed up labels not mattering and their meaning not mattering. I convinced myself that words were unimportant while I obsessed over their definitions. I was caught up in trying to guess what everyone else was thinking. I neglected what I was thinking. I missed what you were thinking. I was selfish. I’m sorry. I really mean that. I was the idiot, blinded by a future that would never exist.

Eventually you wore me down, or I wore myself down. Either way, it was like a floodgate. I went from denying my feelings for you to all in. That was the only way I knew how to like you. We were inextricable from each other after that. I would call you late at night when I felt suffocated by life. You would console me or we would just listen to each other breathe across the phone line. We were never interested in PDA. I only remember holding your hand once. Maybe it happened a few times, but it was never memorable. Even without the physical connection, there was magnetism between us when we were together. I remember the looks across the table when we would spend time with friends: coy yet bashful. I could never get enough of you. It felt mutual. It felt like we built our own little bubble of love and safety within the harsh world we found ourselves. I’d like to think that I helped save you as much as you helped save me.

We never talked about it back then, but I noticed your burns and the scabs you’d never let close. I remember the sleepless nights you’d mention casually before quickly changing the subject. They were subtle. They were chalked up to bad habits and clumsiness and bad luck. I chose to not push or question. It was infrequent enough that I had that luxury. But it was too frequent to be a coincidence. They stopped when we finally got together. Slowly the scabs healed. The dark circles under your eyes lightened. The burns were less common. And I think the fact that they stopped scared me more than the fact that they were there in the first place. I didn’t want to feel responsible, but I couldn’t shake that feeling. I didn’t want to think about the possibility that the only reason you stopped was that we were together. I didn’t want that kind of pressure on our relationship. I didn’t want the responsibility of being the only thing keeping you together. But it was worse to consider the alternative. I wouldn’t allow myself to entertain the idea that it wasn’t me that stopped it: it was me that caused it. I took advantage of you back then. I leaned on you and let you in when it suited me. As soon as things felt too real or were too inconvenient I backed away. I didn’t think about how much I teased you and led you on. I knew you liked me, and I manipulated that. It was a lot to handle. I was a lot to handle. Now that I have distance, I can view my selfishness for what it was and not hide it under the guise of independence. But with hindsight, I can’t also help but wonder if in my selfishness I wasn’t just neglectful of your emotional state, but I was actively harming it. If that was what was happening, I am sorry. I apologize, even though I don’t think I will ever find the words to sufficiently express my regret and my remorse.

At the time our relationship seemed to last a lifetime. The forever we promised we’d love each other for seemed as near as it seemed infinite. But looking back now, the whole thing was a blip. For all the times we spoke on the phone at the dead of night whispering I love you, we spent another night screaming at each other. For every secret we confided in one another, we shot one back as ammunition in a fight. Our intimacy became our weapons. We would break up for a while, which would feel like eternity—it was only ever a matter of days or, at best, weeks—but inevitably we would see each other again. It was unavoidable. And the “I still love you”s and the “this is a bad idea”s and the “I’ve missed you so much”s were just as unavoidable. Somehow we quickly became the messy idea of love that I thought I wanted so badly and that I thought we would never be.

I think I loved the idea of you more than I actually loved you. You can’t blame me though, because you did too. You were so intent on sculpting yourself into the person you decided to be. It was a romantic idea, but you ended up just being a caricature of yourself. You didn’t leave space for the person you actually were.

I hated how you never took school seriously. You were so bent on pitting intelligence against academia. You spent so many hours teaching yourself ancient Greek that you failed your Spanish class. And then you wore that failure as a badge of honor. You tried to take an art class but scoffed at its traditionalist methodology. You saw avant-garde as better, not different. You embodied Max Fischer under the presumption you were Albert Einstein or Bill Gates. Your academic failure frustrated me. Not because you weren’t smart, but because you were too smart for your own good.

You were unconventionally romantic in the most cliché ways. You abhorred Valentines Day, but loved surprising me with chocolate. We broke into cemeteries to have romantic picnics. You brought me to a Tristan Perich concert and a midnight screening of Rocky Horror Picture Show. It was easy to get wrapped up in it all. You made me feel special to you, and you made us feel special to the world. But it was always actually about you. You were chasing the ideal you thought your life should be. I got roped into your fantasy. I’m not sure if you were trying to impress me or make me more like you, but it worked. For a time.

You were so glamorous. Loving you was so glamorous. But it was always on your terms. You knew my favorite font, but not my favorite color. You knew about the English teahouse that I loved because my grandmother used to take me there. You’d surprise me with their little scones and clotted cream. I felt so special. But you never remembered my birthday. You’d gift me books you love, but they were books I had recommended to you. I loved everything you did, but I couldn’t get past all the things you didn’t do.

I wanted you to be honest and vulnerable with me. Perhaps that wasn’t a fair expectation when you weren’t even being honest with yourself. I thought screaming at you would be a wake up call. Of course it didn’t work. You thought loving Robin would be better. Of course that didn’t work either.

I remember that night a few weeks before graduation, when we bumped into each other at that party. I was tipsy. You were a little high. We were both too giggly for a real reconciliation, but the inebriated titters put us at ease. You told me you were in love with Robin. I was shattered, but didn’t show it. At least it felt final. You had gotten together with Robin while we were on break. I shouldn’t have assumed our fight would blow over and we’d get back together like always. I had.

The only comfort in your proclamation was that I thought it was safe to act like friends. I wanted as much as I could get, and I didn’t feel like I had to impress you anymore. We started talking about Heathers, for whatever reason, and wandered away from the roar of the party. We didn’t touch, but walking side-by-side we were perilously close. It felt romantic, but my foggy brain kept me in check. We talked about college and family and anything that wasn’t our past.

Eventually you told me you still had feelings for me. I didn’t know what to make of that. Part of me wanted you to kiss me there and then. Part of me wanted to walk away without a word. Instead, I reminded you that you were with Robin. It was an insensitive response, but you were the one who told me you loved Robin just minutes before. You asked me if I wanted to get back together with you. I asked if you were really in love with Robin. You took that as a no. I meant it as a yes.

I didn’t want to be a trade up. I wanted you to take a risk in choosing me. I didn’t want to be with someone who stays with a person they don’t love—who lies about it. We fought a lot those last few weeks. We were both angry for stupid reasons. Or maybe no real reason at all other than our own pride. Or more generously, our own confusion. We could have steered clear of each other, but we didn’t. We relished in the anger. It was the closest thing we could get to love.

I wondered for years what would’ve happened if I had just said yes to you that night. I used to blame myself for the missed opportunity. I used to imagine a happily ever after. I pictured that moment a thousand times, and each one became more of a fantasy. I wrote out our lives like a movie script. I say I still love you. We kiss, and you break up with Robin. Flash forward to our summer home in the Berkshires where we are smiling and saying “I love you” over breakfast, wedding bands on our fingers. But honestly, it was never going to end like that. It was so close to graduation. Maybe we would’ve been together for the summer, but I’m sure a long distance relationship would not have worked out. Maybe it would have been a less painful ending where we grow apart and just leave each other behind as we slip into our new lives. Maybe it would have been more painful, and we’d be screaming at each other on the phone at 2am rehashing old fights and lying about staying faithful. But it’s all just maybes. What happened was that we couldn’t let go until we couldn’t hold on any longer.

I have no regrets, not really. Loving you was what I needed then. It was all, if not more than, I could handle at that point in my life. Thinking back to the fights and the grudges that we had, I realize none of it matters. Not just because time heals old wounds—though it does help a lot—but also because what was so important back then is just forgotten pettiness now. I wish I could see you one last time. I don’t want to get coffee or catch up. I don’t really want to taint how I remember you with a glimpse of who you’ve become. But it would be nice to bump into you on the sidewalk or with a group of friends at a reunion. We would notice how indifferent we felt. We could have a moment and laugh off how silly we were as children. We could console ourselves that we’ve actually matured since then. We could agree that our relationship is important now because it was important then. At the same time we could agree that it doesn’t really matter anymore, and we would not make false promises to stay in touch. We are too far past pleasantries to lie to each other like that. I’ve done all that processing on my own, but it would be nice to do it with you.

Likelihood of this conversation sparking a connection: 1%
Likelihood of a missed connection due to this conversation: 63%

"Margaret?" a blonde woman in a nice coat gasps, as if this is the most exciting thing to happen to her all day. She catches my eye, and I' m forced to slow to a stop. I hate other people who stop in the middle of the sidewalk, and yet here I am.

"Hey!" I plaster on a smile. Is that the first time I' ve heard you say my name? "How are you?"

"Good. It' s so good to see you!" her voice is thick with fake enthusiasm, but that also just might be her natural state. I only spoke to Katie maybe twice in all of high school.

"You too!" Please say you' re headed somewhere so we can both move on with our lives and never see each other again .

"How are you?"

"Good." I feel like crap, but I don' t want you to know that. "I can' t believe it' s been like five years since I' ve seen you," I can, in fact believe it, and I also believe it hasn' t been long enough, "do you live here now?" Remember to look interested .

"Yeah. I moved here like... three months ago?"

"Cool. Where were you before that?" I ask as if I should know the answer even though I blatantly had no clue.

"I was out in Colorado. I went to college there and just stayed after graduation for like a year to save up some money since I already had a job there. I mean, I loved Colorado," who loves Colorado but moves to the city? "but I figured if I was ever going to live in a city, I should do it while I' m young. You know?"

I do know, since I' m, you know, here. "Absolutely." Fine, I will validate you. But I was here first. "I mean, I moved here right after graduation. I knew I needed to live somewhere with more than like one bar, an Applebee' s, and a mall twenty minutes away."

"Oh my gosh, yas!" she gasps in excited agreement. I hope I don' t say anything else that elicits this response.

"Plus cars are just so expensive." Why am I keeping this conversation alive?

"Yeah. I do miss driving though. You basically had to have a car in Colorado. But insurance and gas... it definitely adds up. But cost of living there was so cheap otherwise. Everything here is so expensive," she says as if it was a revelation.

How can you seriously be that surprised? "Welcome to city inflation." She laughs even though it was a lame thing for me to say, and it wasn' t really a joke either. "So, did you have a job lined up before you moved, or did you just figure it out once you got here?"

"It' s actually this whole crazy story," I would really rather not hear it, but go on, "so I had a job lined up: it was this little start-up that needed a social media specialist," of course you make your living getting paid to send out tweets for 40-somethings who don' t understand how easy it is to run a Twitter account, "but in the month between when they hired me and when I was supposed to start, the company folded and I was out of a job. I had already rented an apartment and everything, so I moved here anyway, but I found out literally three days before I moved that the company didn' t exist anymore."

"Wow. That sucks." That does actually suck.

"Yeah. So I spent like a month applying to a bunch of stuff, but I ended up getting a job at this big digital marketing firm."

"How cool!" How boring.

She steps toward the edge of the sidewalk to let other people by, and I follow. That is not a good sign for me getting out of this conversation anytime soon. "I like it there. Blessing in disguise, maybe. We do social media campaigns for restaurants, collecting data on what kinds of food you order online, so that we can show you ads about discounts and new restaurants that you would like." How creepy. "What are you up to these days?" She is about as genuinely interested in my life as I am excited to sum it up in a pithy, digestible sentence.

"I' m teaching, actually: 7^th grade math and science." I get to spend 5 days a week in a room with moody, horny teenagers who don' t care about what I have to say. Lucky me. I try to sound enthused about my job, because the last thing I want is to let her see how imperfect my imperfect life is.

"That' s amazing!" I' m pretty sure that would' ve been her response regardless of my answer to her question. "Shaping young minds: how perfect for you." As if you have any idea what is perfect for me.

"Yeah. It' s a great job." It' s a tough and miserable age to work with, and being a teacher in the city sucks all on its own. "Plus I get the perks of working on an academic calendar: long summer vacation and a ton of random days off during the year." It sounds better than it actually is; summer vacation is more like a consolation prize than a perk.

"Oh, that' s so nice," she replies with a hint of condescension just a bit too obvious. "What school do you teach at?" There is seriously no way you care about knowing this .

"Clayton Middle," I say looking for recognition in her face that I know won' t be there. "It' s a charter school a few blocks away from here." Was that really any more helpful? She nods, looking like she is putting effort into being interested in her own inquiry. Her lack of response forces my hand. "Do you work in this area too?" Am I going to start bumping into you more regularly? Should I take a different route to the train after work from now on?

"No. I work downtown. But my gym is in this area." But you' re not wearing gym clothes. And why would your gym not be close to either work or home? Or maybe this is close to where you live, but then why wouldn' t you say that instead of mentioning your gym? Is this one of those "I went to college in Cambridge" things?

"Oh, okay." That was not convincing, but I don' t care enough to ask what gym she goes to. That would just be stupid.

"So, do you still talk to anyone from high school?" Ah, finally the one point of mutual knowledge.

"Not really. I fell out of touch with a lot of people after we went to college." Think of literally anything to say to not sound totally anti-social . "But I think Mia lives here now, and maybe Josh." Thank you social media.

"Josh Gwan?"

"Yeah." Are we still seriously doing this song and dance? Neither of us actually care about ever seeing Josh Gwan again.

"Oh, I didn' t realize there were so many of us here!" Us? Since when are we an us? "I actually bumped into Carter at a bar here like a month ago."

Good for you. "What a small world! Oh my goodness; I haven' t even thought about Carter since high school." I doubt he would even know who I am anymore, if he ever knew who I was in the first place . "I had no idea he lived here." Because why would I waste brain space keeping track of him? "How is he?" Did he peak in high school?

"He' s good." I doubt they said more than three words to each other at the bar. "Working for a bank or something."

"Good for him." Look at all of these fucks I don' t give about Carter.

"Yeah. You know, we should do a little reunion. Like, go out for drinks with all of us from high school who live here now."

"Totally. What a great idea." I' m only agreeing because I know her enthusiasm is as genuine as mine, and this will literally never come to fruition because no one actually wants it to happen.

"I' d love to catch up with everyone! See what people are up to now." Bullshit.

"Me too!" Also bullshit.

She glances down at her wrist, pushing back the sleeve of her coat to reveal a silver watch. It' s implausible that her glance was long enough to actually read the time off the analog watch, but I' m not about to question it. "I actually have to get going, but it was so nice running into you!" She gives the "so" a little too much emphasis, and the s almost whistles between her lips.

"Yeah, you too. And we should do that little high school reunion happy hour thing sometime soon," I say trying to keep plans elusive and ambiguous.

"Mhm," she agrees, without even pretending to be that enthused anymore. "Okay, I' ll see you later." Hopefully not. She says it as if we have definitive plans to hang out at a later date. She waves goodbye to me as the sea of foot traffic sweeps her up and carries her down the sidewalk away from me.

Drink to impress: Boulevardier

First dates are easy: easy to get. Take your pick of dating apps, each with its own shtick. There’s the everyman’s ones, the ones based on your religion, location, or sexual preference, ones that are “safer” or “elite,” the friend-of-a-friends one, ones that give you one match a day or a thousand, send one message or text without ever meeting up. Even ones that tout quality over quantity are a dime a dozen, so you can get your one perfect match five times a day! And if that’s not enough inundation, go to any bar or coffee shop, and someone will chat you up. Flirt with the bored barista, the guy sitting by himself, or the girl reading your “favorite” book on the subway. It’s possible to schedule five dates in one weekend, if that’s your idea of fun. In a city with millions of people in it, you can’t turn around without bumping into a date if you’re open to it.

But the dates themselves are much more harrowing than getting them. Each date has a unique flavor of awkward. Sometimes they feel stiff, like a job interview. Person one: Question. Person two: Answer the question heartily, in an engaging way. Question. Person one: Answer. Chat casually on topic of the question. Return the question. Person two: Gives personal experience. Question. Person one: Answer. Question. And so on. There is ease to that kind of conversation: no weird silences or stutters. It feels like you walk away knowing the other person very well, but there isn’t a spark after this kind of date. The whole ordeal is more of a consultation than a true connection. There is nothing natural about the conversation. There is no discussion or debate to the discourse. There is no reaction or tangent. Everything is a question or an answer; there is no room for conversation.

But even though there is no spark on this kind of date, at least it doesn’t feel like a waste of time. There are certainly dates that aren’t even worth the time I spend on them. Coffee is always a safe bet for dates that will be questionably successful. Unlike a meal, which is a pretty set amount of time, coffee can be as fast or as slow as you want. Even when the date buys my coffee and takes less than an hour of my life, it sometimes still feels like a big waste. This kind of date is easily recognizable early on. If you can’t chat easily for fifteen minutes, the rest of the hour is going to be a slog. These dates are when you get to the: do you have siblings, what do they do, where do they live questions because neither of you can think of interesting, agreeable things to say about yourself. These dates are also prone to stretched connections. Such as, you spent a semester living in Germany? I went to Spain once. Totally the same, right? Or, you studied architecture? My freshman year roommate in college was in pre-architecture for a year. No surprise when that line of conversation dries up quickly. I always wonder how I even get this far into a date with someone when there is so little there. I suppose I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. I want people to surprise me: to prove my judgments about them wrong. People do not often surprise me.

Of course a well-planned date always includes an exit strategy. I use the “vague plans” excuse. No more relying on a friend to call as a check-in or awkwardly faking a text to excuse yourself! I always up front ambiguously say I have to leave by some predetermined time. Usually it’s not a serious obligation: I need to go grocery shopping or pick up my dry cleaning, but my date doesn’t need to know that. So when time’s up, I can easily and politely excuse myself. Plus, it’s a good test of who is conscientious of my time and who is oblivious. But since it’s not a real obligation, on the off chance the date goes really well, I can just “reschedule” or pretend my plans got cancelled. Plans are normally fluid, so it’s an easy sell.

The most successful first dates are the inadvertent ones, the “natural” meetings. I suppose they could be considered old fashioned by now. These are people you meet without a screen: someone sitting at the other end of the bar from you or dancing next to you at a club or waiting in line for coffee behind you. Meeting people without an algorithm can go one of two ways: really well or really poorly.

The worst case scenario is the business card introduction. There is never a better indicator of “I think you’re hot; I think my dick is big; let’s fuck” than when a guy chats you up with heavy-handed flirtation for about three minutes and then gives you his business card. Business. Card. I should not be viewed as a business transaction. It is a nicer touch than forcing me to text you while you hover awkwardly over my shoulder to watch, but not by much. Basically any one that strikes up a conversation with the end goal of giving or getting a phone number, rather than investing in the conversation itself, is an automatic failure. If I don’t know you well enough to say whether or not we have anything in common, then what could you possibly know about me? That kind of pick up is just a waste of time waiting to happen.

On the other hand, if the guy sitting next to you at a bar is chatting with the bartender about your favorite movie and you chime in, you already have something in common. And more often than not, that one point of mutual interest will spin out to an hour-long conversation. So when you exchange numbers at the end of the night, it feels more like planning a second date than a dreaded first.

Apps have their appeal. Why get rejected in person if you don’t have to? Why risk meeting a creep in real life when you can keep yourself an Internet’s distance away until you think it’s safe? With all the apps and access of modern technology, it is easier to meet more people you are, theoretically, compatible with. With your pool of potentials increased, you’re bound to find someone good eventually if you kiss enough frogs. Why settle for the okay date in front of you when you can text the next option at the same time? And yet, the old fashioned way is sometimes better. Sometimes the algorithm—and the screen—hinders the connection more than it helps. The traditional, romantic-comedy-perfect meeting of just talking to a stranger is the most effective way to gauge compatibility with a low level of commitment; there isn’t the expectation of compatibility that a “match” creates. Sadly, the old fashioned way rarely happens anymore. You have a lower chance of finding someone in the first place, but a higher success rate when you do. I suppose it all evens out.

Texting "Addiction"

“Caty also brought up the texting thing to me that night.”

“Really? I thought I was being pretty good. I talked to you and Caty the whole first half of the night.”

“And then you texted Lana the whole second half. I’m not saying you shouldn’t talk to her, but everyone’s noticing. Not that your life is anyone else’s business, but it’s not a good look. It shouldn’t be the only thing that people talk about when they ask me how you are, but it is. Because everyone has noticed that you’re more interested in your phone than you are with the people right in front of you.”

“I’ll talk to Caty again,” Diana said simply.

“It’s not just Caty,” I replied shortly.

“And Alex.”

“It’s not just Alex.”

“I know we haven’t hung out as much recently too...”

“No, we haven’t. But my point is that it isn’t just one or two or three people. It’s all of your friends. How hard is it to put your phone down when you are having a conversation with someone else? Texting Lana is not the most important thing in your life. At least, it shouldn’t be.”

“I can’t help it!”

“Yes, you can,” I was raising my voice in frustration. I didn’t want to yell at Diana, but I wasn’t sure what to do about her clear lack of distress at the problem.

“No... it’s like an addiction!”

I hated her for saying that. Part of me hated that she used that word to describe her texting problem: as if she was putting her own lack of self-control on par with people struggling with nicotine or heroine dependency. It was inconsiderate at best. And yet, part of me hated her for saying it because it was true. As soon as she said it, I realized that texting Lana was a compulsion for Diana. It was probably the world’s stupidest addiction, but that’s how it felt to her. She thought it was an addiction because she had never really been addicted in her life, and it was easy to let herself become dependent on it. Something in her compels her to stay fascinated. And the fact that texting someone would be that intoxicating was terrifying. It made Diana seem weak, but it also made me fear Lana just a little bit more. I wanted to think better of Diana, yet I couldn’t help but think she just liked the attention. I wanted to slap Diana or yell at her to make her stop texting Lana, even just for a day. Anything to prove she was better than that, but I knew that as long as she thought about it as an addiction, she would treat it that way. She would let herself give into it. She would think about how bad it was, but she wouldn’t let herself understand what she was doing.

The worst part of this “addiction” was that I couldn’t do anything about it. If she told me she was addicted to alcohol, there is a support group to point her to. If she was addicted to drugs, there are clinics to help her overcome it. There are patches to help people stop smoking. But to whom do I reach out to for a texting addiction? How do I explain to an adult what my friend is struggling with? How would they be any better equipped to help Diana overcome this than I am? I doubt they are, but that hardly makes me qualified. How do you help a friend when you can’t do any of the things they always tell you to do? There is no hotline to call. No support services to send her to. So I just stood there, looking at Diana, wondering what to say, and not knowing what to do.