We Have Gotten Entirely Too Comfortable Being Able to Reach Each Other

THOUGHTS OUTSIDE THE OFFICE

I think we have gotten entirely too comfortable being able to reach each other. Not communicate with each other. Reach each other. Communication is wonderful. Reachability is what happens when every person you have ever met is given a tiny electronic doorbell directly into your nervous system and then nobody establishes visiting hours.

There was a time when you could leave your house and simply cease to exist for a while. You went to the grocery store. You drove somewhere. You ate dinner. You sat outside. You wandered around Walmart for forty-five minutes looking for the thing that was directly in front of you. Nobody knew where you were, and more importantly, nobody considered that unusual. If somebody called your house and you did not answer, they had two choices: call later or die wondering.

Now, if you do not answer the phone, we apparently begin an escalation protocol. First comes the call. Then the text: “Hey, I just called you.” Yes. I know. My phone participated. Then perhaps another call. Then Facebook Messenger, because maybe I am rejecting you specifically through traditional telecommunications but remain available through social media. Then the email. Then the follow-up text advising me that an email has been sent, lest I be deprived of the opportunity to experience the same information on four separate platforms.

And then comes the double question mark. “??” I have very strong feelings about the double question mark. The double question mark does not make me answer faster. The double question mark makes me seriously consider entering the Witness Protection Program. I saw your message. I remain aware of the existence of your question. No search party is necessary. At some point between receiving it and my death, I intend to respond.

Technology has created this bizarre belief that because another person can technically reach you, they have purchased a small controlling interest in your attention. Your phone is within eighteen inches of your body, therefore obviously you should answer it. We know this because the message says “Delivered,” which is apparently the electronic equivalent of personal service.

And God help us, then somebody invented read receipts. Read receipts are forensic evidence for people who have already decided they are mad at you. “I know you saw my message.” Correct. I also saw a laundry basket this morning. That does not mean I handled it. Seeing something is not a contract.

Sometimes I open a message and immediately realize it requires considerably more emotional energy than I presently have available. I close it gently and return it to the little waiting room in my brain where several other responsibilities have already been sitting for an unreasonable amount of time. I am not ignoring you. Your matter has been placed on the mental docket. Unfortunately, the docket is backed up.

And then there is the green “Active Now” dot, which I would like stricken from the technological record entirely. Apparently, if Facebook catches you looking at a video of a raccoon stealing cat food at 10:14 p.m., you have now publicly declared yourself available for conversation. “Hey, I saw you were active.” Yes. I was active. I was actively doing absolutely nothing. That was the activity.

Sometimes doing nothing is the only appointment on my calendar that I am determined to keep. Being online should not function like turning on the OPEN sign at a convenience store. I may be scrolling Facebook because my brain has completed all meaningful operations for the day and would now like to watch a woman reorganize her pantry while a stranger argues about mayonnaise in the comments. That does not mean I am accepting new matters.

Work communication has become even more deranged. Somebody emails you, then texts you to tell you they emailed you, then calls because apparently the email and text did not adequately communicate the seriousness of having emailed you. And everybody's message is “quick.” Quick question. Quick call. Quick favor. Quick thing. Nothing has ever been quick.

“Quick question” is simply the opening statement of an event that will somehow require documents, three other people, a password reset and the discovery that somebody has been using the wrong email address since February. And God forbid you actually answer a “quick question,” because answering one question merely demonstrates that you are currently alive and therefore eligible for follow-up questions.

I am not anti-phone. I love my phone. I can communicate with my children, run a business, look up directions, order groceries and find out whether an actress I vaguely recognize was in a television show I watched in 2007 without ever leaving the couch. This is extraordinary technology.

But somewhere between “this is convenient” and “you can contact me seven different ways,” we completely lost our minds. Accessibility became availability. Availability became expectation. Expectation became, “Hey, just following up on my message from forty-three minutes ago.” Forty-three minutes. The body is still warm. Give it a minute.

What bothers me most is that we understand this perfectly when physical space is involved. Most reasonably adjusted adults would not walk into somebody's house at 10:30 at night, follow them into the bathroom and say, “Hey, since I've got you...” But electronically, we will absolutely climb through somebody's bedroom window.

Text at 10:30. Follow-up at 10:37. “Did you see this?” Yes, Linda. I saw it. Unfortunately, I was briefly attempting to experience the final remaining scraps of my own life.

And phones do not just make us reachable by people. They make us reachable by everything. Email. News alerts. School notifications. Weather alerts. Banking alerts. Appointment reminders. Amazon wants to tell me my package moved fourteen feet. A restaurant I visited once in another state would like me to know they now have mozzarella sticks. My child's school has apparently discovered seven separate apps through which it can tell me tomorrow is pajama day.

Every little red bubble on the screen contains a tiny administrative obligation. At some point you pick up your phone to check the time and twenty minutes later you have paid a bill, answered two emails, learned that someone from high school is getting divorced and still do not know what time it is.

I think maybe we need to resurrect the concept of simply being unavailable. Not angry. Not rude. Not having a breakdown. Not “setting a boundary” worthy of an Instagram graphic. Just unavailable.

Maybe I was working. Maybe I was with my children. Maybe I was driving. Maybe I was asleep. Maybe I was eating cereal directly out of the box while staring blankly into the refrigerator. Maybe I just did not want to talk to anybody. That is still legal. As far as I know.

So send the message. Leave the voicemail. Send the email. Then release it into the universe and continue living your life. I will respond when I can.

And if you send “??” twelve minutes later, I cannot guarantee that your position on the mental docket will improve.

Judith L. Hampton

Attorney-at-Law

Hampton Law Firm

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