Autocorrect Lured Me Into Being Nice—And That Was My Mistake
I’m really sorry. We got off on the wrong foot because I asked, “How are you?” And you, reasonably enough, thought I cared. That original misunderstanding, I’m afraid, has led to much grief for both of us.
I need to clear the air. Here’s what really happened: I opened an email to you and started typing, “How do I submit a reimbursement claim?” But autocorrect jumped up after the first word and suggested I ask, “How are you?”
I felt pressured to include the nicety. I mean, how could I not be as friendly as a computer program? So I accepted the suggestion. Little did I know how fateful that choice was.
You sent back a rather lengthy reply. I suspect that people don’t often ask you about your feelings. I only skimmed what you wrote — something about friends moving away leaving you isolated, a grandmother in hospice, some kind of medical diagnosis, and a missing cat, or maybe it was a ferret — because I was looking for the link to the reimbursement form. I did spend $17 of my own money on binders for a presentation. Then I made another mistake and used another automated response, “Thanks for sharing!”
I was referring to the link.
You wrote back something to the effect of, “Is it really okay that I shared all of that?”
By the time I got that, I was watching House of the Dragon, and again opted for the low-effort autogenerated response: “Of course!” I see now the treachery of that exclamation point. What I thought of as a noncommittal half-response, you must have interpreted as enthusiasm and interest.
From there, you said you felt so comfortable with me and you hoped we could meet up in person. My email program checked my calendar and proposed available times. And “yadda yadda yadda,” as they say.
I know I said the sex was great, but I hope you can see how that could be another polite shading of the truth. You’ll recall that you wrote, “I hope last night was as mind blowing for you as it was for me.” I seriously contemplated an honest response, but then autocorrect suggested, “You bet!” I stared at that suggestion for a long time. I imagined how you would feel hearing that. And then I imagined how you would feel getting my frank response, which was something closer to, “I felt all the passion of embracing a largemouth bass, but it’s been so long for me that I figured, why not?” How could I do that to you when the kinder option was right there, a single tap away? Again, autocorrect lured me into the primrose path of artificial sensitivity.
Or perhaps we all need a little autocorrect kindness from time to time?
Similarly, when you asked me if I was up for role playing Napoleon and Josephine the next time we got together, I went along with it as suggested by autocorrect, that relentless people pleaser. It might have seemed a little odd to you when the time came that I thought Napoleon was a Native American zombie warrior battling his unquenchable passion for the spirit of his late brother’s wife. Again, leaning on autocorrect kept me from asking you important questions about the scenario you had in mind. I shouldn’t have done that. Were you able to get that lamp fixed?
Not everything between us was a lie. Please don’t think that. I did think getting burgers last Thursday was a “Good idea!” And meeting your parents on Friday was “A good time!” Your father’s interest in stamps is contagious, I guess. Autocorrect and my true feelings do occasionally coincide and when honesty is super easy I can do it!
I’m really ashamed that I’ve let the availability of convenient, pithy responses eclipse my genuine thoughts. When I think about where this could lead if we don’t fight it, I imagine my autocorrect talking with your autocorrect until they end up saying “I do!” on their own. I need to stop this.
Okay, that’s what I had to say.
Have a great day!
