Earlier this week, I went to a Zumba class, one of my first since I sprained my ankle in September doing something stupid. (My doctor's advice? "You're 53. You have osteopenia. Don't do things that are stupid.") The previous class was still cooling down and I needed to put on my dance sneakers, so I sat on a long bench outside the studio. There were five of us in a row. All women over 50. As I laced up, I realized that the other four were looking at their smartphones. As soon as my shoes were tied, I pulled out mine.
No "Good morning," no "Hi," no "Hello." Just what my husband long ago termed "FIP" or "face-in-phone." Of course, at the time, he was referring to our teenage daughter.
We all bemoan the time and attention our kids devote to their smartphones. But, maybe we should take a harder look at ourselves first. As a group, grownups aren't setting a very good example these days.
What is it that drives otherwise friendly, sociable people to that tiny screen? All day, every day.
Some of it is the social media phenomenon called "FOMO" or "fear of missing out." In that ten minutes before the fitness class, something might happen and ... OMG ... you might not find out about it until an hour later.
For myself, there are practical reasons why I grab a minute or two online whenever, wherever, I can. You see, I run an ad agency. My staff and/or my clients might have a question or need something from me. They depend on me.
Even I can hear how lame that sounds.
In truth, it wouldn't be the end of the world — or anything remotely like it — if my team or my customers had to wait an hour. I think of my trips to the Y as lunch breaks (remember lunch breaks?). Pre-smartphones, people actually took an hour off each day and actually left their desks and anyone who needed them actually left a message and didn't actually expect to hear back for an hour. This is true. Actually.
In today's always wired (even when we're wireless) world, we're all conditioned to expect or even demand instant access, instant answers, instant gratification. With this, comes an assumption that we are always multitasking. That's really why I check my phone continually. Whether I have five minutes in my car waiting for my daughter or ten minutes on a bench at the gym, I feel pressure to be doing something productive. Just sitting, just relaxing, just thinking ... these things just don't cut it.
I definitely see the error of my ways. (In fact, my recent ankle injury was a direct result of my inability to pause or — God forbid! — do one thing at a time.) But, it's very hard to change my behavior. I do stick to a few rules, however. No phone at the table. No texting when driving. And the phone is charging in the kitchen overnight — so no checking anything if and when I can't sleep.
My daughter follows the same rules, more or less. Sometimes she has her smartphone with her when we're eating dinner because she's waiting to hear from a classmate about an assignment. Sometimes her phone ends up in her bedroom overnight because she was using it to make "Quizlets" in preparation for an exam. (Over the years, my daughter has come to realize that pretty much any rule is bendable if she uses the words "school," "homework," or "test.")
When I think about the vacations our family has enjoyed over the past 18 years, some of the best were deliciously smartphone-free. I refuse to pay exorbitant long distant charges when we go abroad, and (happily) we haven't had signals when we go sailing.
So, I do still understand (and, when I can, thoroughly enjoy) the benefits of hanging up, checking out, going offline. I just need to give myself permission to do so in my everyday life.
And, I will!
Right after I check the text that just came in.
It's probably my daughter.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Showing posts with label Texts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Texts. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 28, 2015
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Take a Texts Test
Quick (SAT-inspired) quiz for you.
Acronyms are to texts as ...
A. Peas are to pod
B. Beers are to 6-pack
C. Texts are to teens
D. All of the above
Whether you sneak peeks at your teen's texts (please don't), or you just want your teen to think you're hip, it helps to have a handle on the latest or at least greatest acronyms. Nothing screams "square parental unit" like typing out your message using individual words.
And, if you really want to seem like a dud, take the time to spell them correctly.
Some text acronyms are already ubiquitous. ("You don't know what OMG means? OMG!") But others are a little trickier. In a few cases, you have to have some fluency in teen slang before you can possibly dissect the corresponding acronym.
What tangled texts teens weave!
To keep you on your texting toes (and to kill a few minutes if you're supposed to be working), here's a quick quiz:
1. OOTD
A. Out of the door
B. Outfit of the day
C. Off of the dock
D. Open our texts, dork-face
2. KOTD
A. Kiss off, tough dude
B. Kicks of the day
C. Kind of tired, daddy-o
D. Kept out till dawn
3. HMU
A. Hate my umbrella
B. Hot make-up
C. Hit me up
D. Have my underwear?
4. TBH
A. To be honest
B. Too brutally honest
C. Tough boogers, honey
D. Truly beautiful hair
5. TBR
A. Totally boring read
B. Thanks, brother
C. Think before rant
D. To be rude
6. OOMF
A. One of my friends
B. Out of my Frappuccinos
C. One of my followers
D. Off of my feelings
7. BAE
A. Baby
B. Boys are exceptional
C. Big ass exam
D. Been away in England
8. WCW
A. World Cup Wrestling
B. Woman Crush Wednesday
C. Worrying can wait
D. What cats want
9. TMI
A. Take my ice cream
B. Totally max image
C. Tough macho ignoramus
D. Too much information
10. RN
A. Real nice
B. Registered nurse
C. Right now
D. Regular news
Hope this was helpful or at least made you LOL.
Answer key: 1B; 2B; 3C; 4A; 5D; 6C; 7A; 8B; 9D; 10C
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Relief Is The Word
As you may have read, my life changed dramatically recently.
My teenage daughter — after dedicating herself to six months of study and practice with a purpose and commitment I have never witnessed before — aced her road test. My daughter, my baby, my child, is now officially allowed to drive.
OMG.
The very first day, she came home, beaming, with her interim license (really, just her learner's permit with the word PASS scrawled across it in ballpoint pen), then immediately "borrowed" a car to go and see her horse.
She was ecstatic.
You might think, based on her enthusiasm, that we had kept the two of them apart. You might think I had never made the thirty-minute trip with her day after day (after day), year after year (after year). You would be wrong.
Here's what people told me ...
"Oh, just wait. You're going to love all the freedom!"
"Wow, what will you do with all that time?"
"Congratulations! You must be so happy."
So happy? More like, so not there yet. (Or, so anxious. Does that work for you? Yes, I'm so anxious.)
To give my daughter credit where it's due, she is a careful and conscientious driver (according to her father, aunt, instructors and registry inspector — I myself wouldn't know). And, she's been incredibly understanding about her mother's current agitated state. Each day she lets me know when she's leaving home (I'm often there, in an office on the third floor), then sends a brief text when she arrives:
here
Pure, unadulterated relief. Never was a word more welcome!
Only once in the four weeks since she got her license has she forgotten. Thirty minutes came and went. Then thirty-five. Then forty. (Can you tell I was watching a clock? 'Biting my nails too.) At about fifty-five minutes, I gave up pretending to be a cooler, calmer, more collected mother. I was worried about calling her phone; if she was stuck in traffic somewhere, I didn't want it ringing and distracting her. So, I called the stable. No answer. Then, I called her trainer's cell and left a message.
A minute later, my phone rang and a sheepish teen said "Sorry, Mom." Whether she was really sorry (and no matter how sorry she may or may not have been), we haven't had a repeat incident. I don't think she's in a hurry to be embarrassed during a lesson again.
It makes me wonder how long I can enforce the call-me-when-you-get-there (here) rule. A year? Two? Until she finishes high school? Until she finishes college? Until I finish, period.
A woman in my Zumba class wears a hoodie sweatshirt that reads "You can do anything for twenty seconds." (It refers to some brutal cross-training fitness class that I will never never never take.)
Every time my daughter gets behind the wheel and heads to the stable, I say a little prayer. I push thoughts of breakdowns and fender benders out of my mind and distract myself with work or chores or a rerun of Dance Moms. I'm nervous. But, I'm also brave.
I tell myself, "I can handle anything for thirty minutes." And I can.
But after that? I'm making a call.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
My teenage daughter — after dedicating herself to six months of study and practice with a purpose and commitment I have never witnessed before — aced her road test. My daughter, my baby, my child, is now officially allowed to drive.
OMG.
The very first day, she came home, beaming, with her interim license (really, just her learner's permit with the word PASS scrawled across it in ballpoint pen), then immediately "borrowed" a car to go and see her horse.
She was ecstatic.
You might think, based on her enthusiasm, that we had kept the two of them apart. You might think I had never made the thirty-minute trip with her day after day (after day), year after year (after year). You would be wrong.
Here's what people told me ...
"Oh, just wait. You're going to love all the freedom!"
"Wow, what will you do with all that time?"
"Congratulations! You must be so happy."
So happy? More like, so not there yet. (Or, so anxious. Does that work for you? Yes, I'm so anxious.)
To give my daughter credit where it's due, she is a careful and conscientious driver (according to her father, aunt, instructors and registry inspector — I myself wouldn't know). And, she's been incredibly understanding about her mother's current agitated state. Each day she lets me know when she's leaving home (I'm often there, in an office on the third floor), then sends a brief text when she arrives:
here
Pure, unadulterated relief. Never was a word more welcome!
Only once in the four weeks since she got her license has she forgotten. Thirty minutes came and went. Then thirty-five. Then forty. (Can you tell I was watching a clock? 'Biting my nails too.) At about fifty-five minutes, I gave up pretending to be a cooler, calmer, more collected mother. I was worried about calling her phone; if she was stuck in traffic somewhere, I didn't want it ringing and distracting her. So, I called the stable. No answer. Then, I called her trainer's cell and left a message.
A minute later, my phone rang and a sheepish teen said "Sorry, Mom." Whether she was really sorry (and no matter how sorry she may or may not have been), we haven't had a repeat incident. I don't think she's in a hurry to be embarrassed during a lesson again.
It makes me wonder how long I can enforce the call-me-when-you-get-there (here) rule. A year? Two? Until she finishes high school? Until she finishes college? Until I finish, period.
A woman in my Zumba class wears a hoodie sweatshirt that reads "You can do anything for twenty seconds." (It refers to some brutal cross-training fitness class that I will never never never take.)
Every time my daughter gets behind the wheel and heads to the stable, I say a little prayer. I push thoughts of breakdowns and fender benders out of my mind and distract myself with work or chores or a rerun of Dance Moms. I'm nervous. But, I'm also brave.
I tell myself, "I can handle anything for thirty minutes." And I can.
But after that? I'm making a call.
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Putting The A In AADHD
Teenagers get a bad rap.
All right, I know. As a blogger who has blogged a blog about raising tweens and teens for the past three years (!), I am very much a party to this bad rapping. There's just so much material! Homework and fashion and cafeteria drama and technology.
The single biggest thing on my contemporary complainers' radar is teens and technology.
We've all heard it (and most of us have said it) ...
"My son plays too many video games."
"My daughter's addicted to her iPhone."
"Social media ate my teenager's brain."
And, how many of us can resist an opportunity to say something along the line of ...
"When I was your age, we didn't have laptops."
"When I was your age, we didn't have cell phones."
"When I was your age, we didn't have email or texting, Facebook or Twitter, YouTube or Instagram."
It's all part of an unspoken conspiracy, a collective-selective memory process. As adults, it's our job to look back through rose-colored glasses. For just about any criticism we lay on our offspring, there's a corresponding — contrasting — example from our past. We never forgot our homework. We always cleaned our rooms. We never smart-mouthed our mothers. We always observed our curfews. We never experimented with drugs or alcohol. We always studied and got good grades.
And, we did — or didn't do — all of the above without digital technology.
At least that part is true.
Well, I'm here to tell you that we seem to be making up for lost time.
This morning, I attended a marketing industry symposium. There were several esteemed speakers and about fifty-odd attendees. The average age of the audience was maybe 40. There wasn't a teenager in sight. There were, however, digital devices. Lots of them.
Each person seemed to have at least two pieces of equipment with them. A smart phone of some brand or other, plus a tablet or a laptop. We had all spent good money to hear from experts about industry innovations. And, what were we doing? (Here's a hint "listening with rapt attention" is not the correct answer.)
Let's see ... the guy behind me was typing away furiously. I sincerely doubt he was taking notes. A woman in front of me was reading The New York Times on her iPad. Another, to my left, was checking Facebook on her phone. I myself checked emails more than once. Meanwhile, the poor speaker is plodding through his PowerPoint slides, fully aware, I have no doubt, that he had about half the room's attention, about half the time.
What message are we sending really? "Yes, I can afford the latest gadgets, can't you?" Or, "Ooh, look at me. I'm so important I can't be out of touch for sixty minutes or my company will go under, the stock market will crash, and the world as we know it will end." Or, "Aren't you impressed with my ability to multi-task?"
Actually, no. Not really.
We complain that today's kids can't concentrate or focus on one thing at a time. Apparently, we can't either. We reminisce about the good old days, but we are totally, completely, utterly engrossed in the toys of today. We tell our teenagers to "Do as I say, not as I do." But, honestly, when has that ever worked?
All I have to say is this. People who carry glass tablets, shouldn't throw stones.
(No, they really shouldn't. Replacing cracked touch screens is a b*tch.)
If you enjoyed this post, I invite you to order a copy of my new book Lovin' the Alien at www.lovinthealien.com.
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