A couple of weeks ago, I started feeling this slight knocking against my temple. It slowly built in intensity until suddenly it was a stinging slap upside the head. It was my Sense of Self-Respect, and it asked me, “Why aren’t you over this Facebook thing already?”
Dazed, I replied, “I’m still having fun with it,” although I think that was a lie, because Facebook isn’t very fun lately. It’s kind of boring, and it has caused a lot of trouble.
Not that I’ve posted unflattering—or too flattering—photos of myself or updated my status with something I’ve regretted saying, but there are aspects of one’s life that really should remain hidden in the corner of one’s mind, hugging themselves while rocking on their heels and chain smoking. Preferably, that room should be dark, with no visitors.
In my household, the first person to stumble onto one of those dark and squirmy and freshly unpacked memories was me. I share an e-mail with my husband. So I knew when he got a Facebook e-mail from a friend that said, “Wow Ron, what memories we had! Do you remember me?”
Ron didn’t remember her. Possibly because for a woman in her late-40s, she looked strangely 30ish. I’ll leave it at that, but add it’s strange how the years can actually lift and tuck some people and sag and pull on others. So Ron viewed her profile. It said she was single and looking to date. But they shared another friend in common, so Ron figured it was a girl who hung out with a group of people who hung out with the group of people he hung out with.
In short, he friended her.
“She totally wants to hook up with you,” I said.
“And what about the 10 other people that wanted to be my friend? Did they want to hook up, too?”
“No, but they weren’t like, “Ooh, Ron, what hot memories we had! You remember me, don’t you? We should hook up sometime,” I said in my most flirtatious-slash-sarcastic voice.
“She didn’t say that.”
“Then what did she mean?”
“I took it as, ‘Hey, Ron, what’s doing old friend? Remember me from high school? Those were some jolly good times. We should get together for a spot of tea some time,” he said, turning all British on me.
OK, that’s not what happened, but that’s what he implied when he said he thought she was just dropping a line to say hello. Then one day, as Ron was checking his Facebook account, he said, “This girl is hitting on me!” She sent him a virtual gift. Yeah, some cutesy bubble-blowing, little bugged-eyed teddy bear turtle dove thing with huge blinking heart-shaped eyes.
“What, is she in junior high?” I said. Then I came to my senses. “What, am I in junior high? What’s with all the jealousy?”
I said this out loud. I sort this stuff out loud a lot.
Eventually, the girl must have got the message and fell in line with all the other friends on his account, being casually friendly.
Then, another message came from someone in my husband’s past. This girl pulled no punches in reminding him about specific memories from when they dated when he was 19—despite the fact his profile has references to our kids and me. The comments were posted for all to see. This one actually started a virtual war.
First, my sarcastic side tied up and gagged my mature side and made a remark in response to her remark. It was funny, and lot of people laughed at it, because, you know, I’m a witty person. Then, my friends, who are also friends with Ron, couldn’t keep their mouths shut—or their fingers still, and posted a remark supporting me. Then the girl got mad and released all her finger fury on everyone’s Facebook pages.
So we took a break from Facebook. Then I started to check mine again, occasionally. Then I noticed Ron was checking his. Then it happened. Ron popped over my shoulder one day to see what I was working on.
“Who is that?” he asked, nodding toward a picture of a shirtless guy who replied to one of my posts about completing a triathlon. His reply was something solicitous like, “Way to go, Shelly!” Or something like that. I guess you have to read between the lines.
“So why are you friends with your ex-boyfriend?” Ron asked.
“Uh, I just—wait a minute, how did you know that?”
“Because you just admitted it right now,” he said in a way that suggested if he had a football he’d slam it down and do a touchdown dance.
“By the way, that’s the first and only exchange I’ve had with the guy online.”
“Umm hmm,” Ron replied like a detective compiling evidence.
And my Sense of Self-Respect reminded me of all of this recently during our talk about Facebook. Fortunately, I’m pretty good at occasionally losing my Sense of Self-Respect, which I did and happily went back to Facebook—although I’ve reconsidered once again after my son’s 9-year-old friend came over and passed by my open laptop. On the Facebook screen was a picture of my friend in that cutesy pose that Facebook girls do. The boy walked by the screen and said, “Wait a minute,” and then stopped in front of the screen in awe. “Whhhooooaaaa,” he said in slow motion. I shooed the boys away from the laptop but didn’t close it—until I caught them twice more gravitating toward the picture on the screen.
“Aw, I gave that boy his first Kelly LeBrock (or Bo Derek or Phoebe Cates—insert appropriate-decade hottie here) moment,” she said when I told her.
And it occurred to me that maybe Ron and I no longer spy over each other’s shoulders at the screen, but what about our boys? Maybe that’s the best reason to quit Facebook. Maybe.
Don’t worry. Arts Editor Shelly Cone probably won’t give up her Facebook account. Maybe. Contact her at scone@santamariasun.com.
This article appears in Nov 3-9, 2011.
