“Text me,” I tell my husband as he heads to the airport for a week of comedy shows in Indianapolis. “Call me. Skype me. FaceTime me. I don’t really use Snapchat, but do that, too.” I know I should be telling him to break a leg, but I can’t help giving him a detailed to-do list for how to be in communication with me at all times. Because, thanks to the world of constant connectivity in which we live, he can be.
“Okay, babe,” he says. “I’m going to communicate every way there is. I’m going to Facebook you. I’m going to MySpace you. I’m going to create a new profile that pretends to be you.”