Status Update

Facebook is addicting.  I am addicted to Facebook.  My sister is addicted to Facebook and she doesn’t even have a Facebook page.  Since I’ve gotten a laptop, and thus can feel a little less guilty being on the computer since I’m still in the same room as my family, I’ve become overly obsessed with Facebook.  Immediately upon turning on the computer, I open up Flock, open a new tab (so I can leave it open while doing whatever else I have to do) and click on my Facebook favorite.  I have friends on FB who post a status update multiple times a day, others who write “I can’t think of anything to write for a status update! LOL!”  However, I consciously  monitor my status updates, thinking critically about what I’ll write, making sure it’s something I wouldn’t mind my mother or cousin—who are my friends—seeing, something interesting and funny, something profound or motivational.  I don’t update more than once a day, even if I have something interesting to say.  I don’t want to be that person. 

I don’t actively pursue new friends on FB, although if I get a friend request, chances are I’ll say yes.  And of course I’ve done searches for people—general searches for people I may have known from a certain school or organization, searches for specific people.  But unless it’s someone I have an active real-life friendship with, or someone with whom I’ve lost touch with and actually want to have an active real-life friendship with, I don’t request.  I just scan their pages for whatever information they’ve made available to everyone, or very often to friends-of-friends, check out their pictures and marital status and employment status and living arrangements and then make a general assessment as to whether or not they’ve become successful, or at least successful in terms of what I’ve become.  I’m not one of those people who have 257 friends on Facebook.  Like anyone actually has 257 friends.  Certainly they may have met 257 people over the course of their lives, but they’re not friends.  A recent post stated that Aiden  Stowe and Antonio Hernandez are now friends.  Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez, at no point in their lives, have been friends.  Sure, Aiden and Antonio went to the same high school.  Sure Aiden’s dad was Antonio’s eighth grade social studies teacher.  Sure, some of Aiden’s friends really are Antonio’s friends.  But that doesn’t make Aiden and Antonio friends.  They were never on any sports teams together, they were never in any clubs together, they didn’t attend the same college, or work at the same fast-food restaurant or anything that might warrant them being friends.  The closest thing Aiden Stowe and Antonio Hernandez have in common is that in some point in their lives, they both kissed me. 

About two weeks ago, I got a friend request from my senior-year boyfriend, Aiden Stowe (yes, the same Aiden Stowe).  I waited a day—not because I was contemplating accepting, but because, despite the fact that I’ve been happily married for over five years, I didn’t want to look desperate,—and accepted his request.  I waited another couple of days before I posted something on his wall, a simple “hey what’s up?”  then obsessed for a couple days waiting for his response.  I complained to my girlfriend: “Why do people friend request you, then not even talk to you or respond to your wall posts?  I didn’t join Facebook to see how many virtual friends I could pretend to have.  I joined to actually talk with people I care about.  WTF?”  The next day, I got a full message responding to my wall post telling me about what he had been up to and generally how things were going.  I waited two days, then responded with what turned out to be an absurdly long message detailing my every success and positive experience since the last time we really talked, over ten years ago.   In a nervous frenzy, I quickly added, via a new message, “Wow, didn’t realize that message was so long.  Didn’t mean to go on and on!”  Could I possibly be any dorkier?  A couple days later, he responded with a short “glad to hear things are going well” type message and that was that. 
These kinds of brief encounters only amplify my insecurities.  It’s like a perpetual 10-year-reunion.  My best friend got giddy over her high school crush commenting “Great pics, Ginger” on her wedding photos.   Like maybe Antonio Hernandez (yes, same Antonio Hernandez) now thought she was cool.  And like it even mattered. 

Our messages back and forth between friends of past whom we rarely see portray us only at our best.  They highlight all the wonderful things we’ve been doing, all the successes we’ve had, all the benefits our lives have granted us.  “Oh, things are great!” we say.  Statistically speaking, things cannot be that great for that many people.  For some of us, our lives still suck as much as they did in high school—for many of us, even more so.  Sure, if you’re friends with someone on Facebook, you may see a status update or two that points out the small deficiencies in their life—a note about how work sucked this week, or the baby wouldn’t stop crying, or her boyfriend and she just broke up.   But there’s never anything of any real substance.  I would never have sent a truthful message to Aiden Stowe:

Hey, Aiden!  So glad to see you’re doing well with your new wife and adventurous job in Korea.  Things are going okay here.  We live in Portland, in outer Northeast—you know, Suburbia.  We rent a cute little—and boy do I mean little, our old apartment was only 100 square feet smaller!—house.  From my dad.  It’s what we like to call a fixer-upper.  Some people call it character, but I just call it shitty.  There’s a tarp on the roof right now, which works better than the buckets we had in the office.  If it would ever stop raining we’d fix our roof.  But really, it’s fine that it hasn’t since we can’t really afford to fix it anyway.   So anyhow, we lived with my sister and her two kids for a while after I finished grad school.  It wasn’t as bad as I had thought it would be, but when I unexpectedly (FYI, no you do not need to be off the pill for a few months before you get pregnant, a couple weeks will do fine!) got pregnant, we figured it was time to get a place of our own.  We couldn’t get financing, thanks to years of credit card debt on my part (I looked really cute and fashionable for about three years, though!), so my dad bought our house and we rent from him.  And to top that all off, he still pays a chunk of our rent since we can’t afford the whole mortgage!  I drive a Pontiac G6, which really has some get-up-and-go, but honestly is quite a dorky car.  And it’s red, so it just screams out “I’m trying to be cool, but this is as cool as I can afford.”  My husband drives his dad’s beat up old ‘97 Ford F150.  Thank goodness for our parents, right?!  I’m not working full time this year.  I had been teaching high school Language Arts for three years, and really loved it, but it was just too much freaking work.  I couldn’t maintain a full-time job and my household.  The kitchen was always a mess, sink full of dishes, and the laundry was never done—we just scoured the laundry baskets for clean underwear and wore the same pants over and over again.  And despite being considered a pretty damn good teacher, and a part of numerous school affiliations, I usually only actually read and graded half of the papers I assigned.  I’d bring them home to work on, but they got lost under the pile of laundry that needed to be folded.  Luckily most of my students were so apathetic and never asked to see their grades, it didn’t matter.  So this year, after being laid off due to budget cuts, I’m just tutoring.  I've applied for dozens of jobs, but can barely even get an interview.  I only work about two to four hours a day, but since they’re at three different places, I’m usually gone most of the day anyway.  Which means that even though I don’t make crap for money, I still can’t keep up with my housework, so if you come over, there’ll probably be a pile of laundry and a pile of dishes and the floor will be covered in dust bunnies.  Oh, and if you come in the spring, there’ll probably be ants crawling around everything because despite utilizing every chemical and all-natural old wives’ tale known to man, I can’t get rid of them.  My family has pretty much gotten used to them.  My husband can’t figure out what the hell he’s doing with his life, so don’t even ask about him!  He’s still in school, so we live off his student loans, GI Bill, and his disability (did I mention that 11 months in Iraq gave him Quadriceps Tendonitis and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder –the symptoms being anxiety, depression, and insomnia?  He’s certifiably crazy and on the list for a knee replacement!)  My son is three, and yes, he is adorable, and very smart.  I’m pretty sure he’s hitting for the other team though, or at least leaning toward transvestite, since he loves to paint his toenails and wear princess dresses and recently told me he wanted to be a mermaid.  Plus, he’s starting to whine all the time, complaining about how I hurt his feelings because I wouldn’t let him watch The Princess and the Frog again.  So that’s pretty much it.  We get out every once in a while, maybe once a month, and hit the Red Robin or Olive Garden or some other chain restaurant, then maybe if we’re feeling crazy, go to a movie.  Anyhoo, hope you’re doing as well—or better!  Talk with you some other time.

No one shares in those Facebook messages how their lives are really going.  And although, on a very conscious level, we all know this, I can’t help but feel even more insecure about myself when perusing through people’s pages.  My friend Carlie’s photos consist solely of pictures of her various world travels and nights out to the bar—always clad in Banana Republic tops, Seven Jeans, and  a Coach purse.  Her status updates read, “Had a great time in Thailand, where to now?” Friends write on her wall things like “When are we going back to Dutch Goose for $ beer night?” and “OMG, girl, so much fun last night!”  I’m sure being single with no kids and a steady income you get to keep all to yourself has its downfalls, but judging by her Facebook page, there are none. 

My real friends and I have often talked about the difference between perception and reality in “the grass is always greener on the other side” phenomenon.  She’ll run into an old friend and feel bad about herself because this person is married with kids and a house, while she is living at her parents’  house working retail and still single.  And even though I remind her that I’m married with a kid and a house (kind of), it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.  Of course this friend didn’t tell her all about her troubles—she gave her Facebook stats and they moved on. 

There’s always a special week in Facebook.  It’s doppelganger week—post a picture of the famous person you look like.  It’s mother appreciation week—post how much your kids weighed at birth.  It’s Book lover’s week—post what book you’re reading now and in the comments, write your favorite quote.  I’m going to start some more truthful weeks in Facebook.  

It’s real friends week—count the amount of real friends in your Facebook.  You know, the people you’ve actually talked to or seen in the past six months.  Copy and paste this into your status, then in the comments, write the number of friends you really have!  (32/102, 17 of whom are family).

It’s reality week—in your status, tell us the truth about how your life sucks.  Then in the comments, list two or three more reasons, because man, if you’re like me, you won’t be able to choose just one.  (I live pay check to pay check; my dad subsidizes my rent; I’m un/underemployed; my husband is certifiably crazy; my house is smaller than some of my friends’ garages).

LESSON LEARNED: The grass is not always greener on the other side.  Everyone has some dandelions sprouting in their lawn.  Maybe seeing just a glance into other people’s troubles would put our own into perspective and remind us that although we may post about how great things are, at some point, everybody’s status sucks.