It always starts off innocently enough. A few friends or family members send a group text — usually to share something like a change of plans, a photo of a perfectly plated quiche, or a link to an article about menopause. (Yes, apparently I’m that age now.)
At first, it’s fine. You reply. You’re engaged. You’re contributing to the community of conversation. Then suddenly — ping, ding, vibrate — your phone begins to perform what I can only describe as a one-woman off-Broadway percussion show. And just like that, your productive morning turns into a full-blown investigation of a weird mole your sister found on her shoulder. One hour and twelve Google searches later, I found myself reading “Top 10 Spies in History.†Highly recommend. Apparently the mole was fine, but I’m now 87% sure Mata Hari faked her death.
I’m in multiple group texts. One is just with my sisters. If a stranger stumbled upon our conversations, they’d either assume we were extremely close or had recently escaped from a facility where adult supervision was mandatory.
Last week, my sister — we’ll call her Mathy, because that’s her name — sent this gem:
“So, I’ve been thinking. The next time Christy visits, we should all learn how to shoot a gun. I have a friend who can teach us, or we could take a class and get handgun permits. With all the craziness out there, it’s time to prepare ourselves.â€
Within seconds, Laura replied, “For what?! A zombie apocalypse? Guns don’t work on zombies. I think.â€
Before I could even Google “Can a gun kill zombies?†(spoiler: maybe?), Christy replied with peak pragmatism, suggesting that one of us take the gun class and just be in charge of protecting the rest. Like a pioneer version of The Hunger Games, but with fewer braids.
I contributed with a meme of Suzanne Sugarbaker in a pink bathrobe holding a machine gun, captioned: “I’m trying to protect my home and my pig.†I added, “I’m scared of guns. Not it.†That’s how important decisions are made in our family — via memes and passive refusal.
We agreed to revisit the topic when Christy visits. Side note: Christy has not scheduled that visit. We assume she’s in hiding.
My favorite group text, however, is the one with my husband and sons. Until recently, my husband Jay had a flip phone. That meant by the time he typed out “What time?†we had already moved on to discussing pizza toppings, midlife crises, and who left the milk out. We thought a smartphone would make things better. It didn’t. He still refuses to download any social media apps, claiming they’re “a black hole of nonsense,†which is fair — but now he can’t open any of the links we send him. So we mostly just text him instructions like he’s a contestant on "The Amazing Race" and hope he shows up in the right place.
Last Christmas, someone suggested we use a group text to organize dinner plans. Six siblings + spouses + nieces and nephews = 16 people with 16 different opinions on mashed potatoes. Within 46 messages, the conversation had devolved into heated negotiations over who was bringing chairs, who didn’t believe in green bean casserole, and whether Jesus would have supported almond milk.
That’s when I did what any sane person would do: I Googled how to silence a group text without anyone knowing. Then I ghosted. I’m not sure if that’s what ghosting actually is, but it felt right and I’ve never been happier.
Despite the chaos, group texts are kind of amazing. They’re like a living scrapbook — equal parts updates, memes, arguments, and weird medical oversharing. And if the pings get to be too much? I have two words for you that will save your sanity: Hide Alerts.
Comments? Email Becky at beckysoldtennessee@gmail.com. Especially if you know if zombies can be stopped with a well-thrown green bean casserole.
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