{Love Language}: Pebble is Almost a Five Letter Word

Wordle is my love language.

Do you remember during the early stages of the pandemic, when people randomly started posting yellow and green squares as their Facebook status? And then came the common comments refrain: “What is this?”

If you are still uninitiated (which, like, if you are, please get out from the rock under which you reside), the concept is simple. Daily, you are given six chances to guess a five letter word. As you progress through each guess, if you correctly guess a letter, but it’s in the wrong position, it turns yellow. The correct letter in the correct position earns you a green box. You want to guess the word correctly every day to maintain a streak.

Created by Josh Wardle (natch), in its earlier days, it lived on a simple website and you could play for free. But because of Ronald Reagan and late-stage capitalism, Wordle was eventually required by the New York Times, where it now exists as part of its pay to play NYT Games app.

Which I most obviously paid for.

I’m a single, 42-year-old gay man with a disposable income. So, $40 seemed like a very small price to pay for a serotonin boost every day before I’ve even left my bed in the morning. In addition to unfettered access to my newest addiction, the NYT no longer played gatekeeper from the daily crosswords, their archives, Spelling Bee (a personal favorite), and any other games the newspaper had introduced in order to make money as subscriptions faltered.

And then something strange happened.

I found connection.

Through day-to-day interactions with friends, peers, and social media acquaintances, it became apparent that I wasn’t the only person playing. I started to routinely share my score to my Instagram story, and I’d have people cheering me on or bemoaning the end of my streak (my best streak is 100, by the way.) I was asked to stop spoiling the answer based on what GIFs I used to accompany my post. (Sorry, Josh, butttttttt – were they really spoilery? REALLY?)

Wordle became a shared routine among my friends and me. It was proof of life. Two of my best friends were close to calling the authorities when I didn’t send my Connections and Strands scores until after 10 A.M. I had merely overslept, but they were worried I was dead in a ditch.

It is now one of the cherished rhythms people have with their friends. And if you decide to then introduce that rhythm and routine with other people, it has gravity.

So, if you want to share your Wordle score with me, you’ve just asked to be invited to a very exclusive inner circle.

I have an “Approved Travel Partner” list.

The Wordle list is the same thing. When you travel with me, it means we’re aligned on how we travel and how we plan on experiencing our destination. It means taking the first flight out. Mimosas at 6 A.M. in the United Club Lounge. Flying first class if it won’t break the bank. Having just enough structure that we know what we’re doing, but enough flexibility to explore something that piques our interest. And, since most of my vacations are at RunDisney events, you need to love Disney, enjoy running, and be willing to take out a second mortgage should the opportunity arise.

If we are going to swap daily Wordle scores via text, I need to know you are COMMITTED.

It may mean getting a text from me at 7 A.M. with my score. It may mean a simple emoji reaction. Or it may be the gateway to an hour long text conversation. You need to be IN IT and recognize I don’t take it lightly. I’m dedicated to sharing a piece of my brain (and life and routine) with you. And you’ve put yourself out there as someone who has said you actually want daily interaction with me. That can be unpredictable and chaotic.

And, unfortunately, I have yet to work through my overthinking tendencies, so there are days I may not send first because I need to validate that you’re still committed to this thing.

So when you commit to being Wordle buddies, you’re committing to a MESS of a person and friend.

And I take the responsibility incredibly seriously.

In the animal kingdom, scientists call it pebbling.

Penguins collect pebbles in their beaks and deliver them to their partner. It’s a sign of affection and trust. It’s like when you send a meme or a quote to someone because you want to make them laugh or you want them to know you’re thinking of them.

My silly little word games are my pebble to a select few. You’re promising daily access and I’ve decided to trust you with the little pebbles that bring me joy. Yes, it’s a word game score, but in some ways it is so much more. As I attempt to build new connections in life as others have degraded, sharing Wordle (or Connections, Strands, or Spelling Bee) is a way to establish trust and determine potential permanence of a relationship. It’s the gateway into knowing I can text you when I want a drinking buddy or need to vent about something that’s pissing me off.

It’s me sharing the victory of getting a word in two guesses (I’ve only succeeded in my first attempt twice, and in those cases, had a little help) or the frustration at needing to restart my streak because of those god damned double letter words.

It’s my pebble.

And if I’m sharing my Wordle score with you, it’s the first trepidacious, tentative step in establishing something akin to friendship.

We’re in it now, my friend.

It’s also an anchor.

In a world where we are more disconnected than ever, and in a universe where I feel like I’m floating by myself at a perilous speed, these silly little word games anchor me to those around me. They remind me that there is someone with a hand to grasp as I hurtle towards a black hole of self doubt or that if we’re all getting sucked into a blackhole of despair, at least we’re getting sucked in together (giggity). It’s like I am reaching my fingers across a deep, uncrossable fathom and someone else, maybe unknown to me, is desperately reaching out to me, and our fingers graze. There’s a small flash of energy, and we’re connected.

It’s a sign that someone, somewhere out there (yes, Feivel reference intentional) has taken even a moment of their day to think of me first. These day to day exchanges remind me that I exist in someone else’s world, and when the time comes, that I existed as a part of a story other than my own. If I’m forgotten for everything else, there will be a text chain of green and yellow boxes.