It's Christmas Eve. You get a text, from the object of your affection: "Hope your Christmas is a merry one," it reads.

This text reeks of a spam text: the kind you send to all fifteen of your closets friends, plus your mom and little brother. You get excited when you see his name on your phone. This excitement is quickly replaced by disappointment, then anger, then an urge to throw said phone, preferably at him, but anything with a head would do.

But is this a fair reaction? I think there are two ways to look at it: a) asking to be number one is asking for quite a lot, and b) making someone's top fifteen list ain't bad.

If he had said, "Merry Christmas, Erin. I actually love you," that'd be weird, and I'd be freaked out. Then again, is including maybe not the "I love you," but at least my name, really that demanding? Is it so much to want to know it was me, and only me, he was thinking about, in the thirty seconds it takes to send a text?

Maybe. One only has so much time allotted for text messaging after all, and asking for a personalized message on Christmas is asking to be the text equivalent of a first choice. "Poor souls two through fifteen got spammed," you'd later boast to your friends, "but today, I'm number one."

But asking for number one-ness is a pretty heavy request after only knowing someone for just six months, or a year, or even six years. With that supreme pecking order comes responsibility and commitment you might not be able to bestow, and at the very least, you'd be expected to give an awesome Christmas gift. And I didn't get him anything.

Life's no Love Actually reenactment, and even though there was more I wanted to say, ("The only thing I want for Christmas is you"), I replied, "And to you, a Merry Christmas," rest assured I made the top fifteen, or twenty, or however many friends he has in his address book. And for now, that's good enough.

Besides, I lie. He's not the only thing I wanted for Christmas. I also wanted an iPhone, and at least I got that this year.