Love Letter #17

Dear text messaging,

I know Jim Weed doesn't like you, but who cares. I like you enough for many, many people. When my prehusband* and I started dating, when he was working second shift, and staying up until three o'clock in the morning talking on the phone stopped being practical for me who works at seven o'clock, you were a key form of communication between he and I. You knew a half-hour lunch break was not long enough for two people falling in love, so you helped us out. It was all a grand conspiracy between you and God. You're lucky: it turns out I'm okay with this love thing.

And you're way less commital than most any other form of communication.
Jim will come around.

*The term prehusband was coined by co-worker; I can take no credit for its existence. Because it turns out, prehusbands are never really boyfriends, and the word is way less society pages than fiance.