I’m the last person who needs an excuse to spend more time on the computer. When my kids want juice, my instinct is to say, “Put that request in an e-mail, will you?” I’ve bought everything from aspirin to diapers to shoes online (and yes, the shoes didn’t fit; and no, I didn’t get around to returning them, and please don’t tell my husband. I told him they didn’t fit because my feet change size with every pregnancy).
But I recently took the plunge and entered the great time-suck known as Facebook. I’m not sure why I did it, other than that all my high school friends were doing it, and because I’m just hypocritical enough to tell my kids to stand up to peer pressure and then crumble to it myself in a New York minute.
At first, I felt addled and ancient. What was the big deal about this newfangled network that all the young people were talking about? And why would I want to post a note on someone’s “wall”—their Facebook page—when I could have a lengthy, personal and pleasant talk with them by e-mail? I had no time for this; there were ill-fitting shoes to be ordered.
Then the Facebook seduction began (cue Barry White music). I began getting requests from former classmates wanting to be “friends” with me—even the Cute Boys Who Played Sports. Was it possible I wasn’t as big a dork in high school as I thought? Could it be that my frizzy hair and myopia were actually wildly attractive?
Soon, I was flitting from wall to wall, posting charming notes and feeling as confidently social as Michelle Obama in a sleeveless J. Crew dress. I clicked onto the page of a friend I hadn’t seen in a while and invited her to my house for a visit. I signed it with a warm row of X’s and O’s (a flurry of hugs and kisses, for those of you who aren’t quite so technologically savvy as I am). My friend didn’t respond, so I checked her wall a few days later. That’s when I realized I’d been logged into my husband’s Facebook account and had actually sent the message from him.
Suddenly, Facebook was a bit scary. A friend of mine who is gay revealed, with not a small amount of horror, that Facebook showed him an ad for something called “Le Disco Pant.” Wait, Facebook ads are targeted to individual subscribers? I thought everyone was getting the “How Aging Hollywood Stars Look Younger” ads that blanket my Facebook page. That means Facebook—the vehicle that has made me feel young and attractive and sought after as a friend—secretly thinks I’m old and wrinkly. Damn you, Facebook! You’ve been snickering at me behind my arthritic back!
Things continued to spiral downward. I learned that teenagers hate it that the more, um, mature among us are taking over Facebook. “I try to ‘friend’ my daughter every few weeks, and she always rejects me,” one mom lamented. “It looks like I’m going to have to join the ‘Facegroup’ support group for parents whose kids won’t friend them on Facebook.”
All this was taking the luster off my Facebook experience—until, out of the blue, one of the Cute Boys sent me a hug. I’m electronically embraceable! Suddenly, Facebook and I were best friends once more.
Lately, however, as our relationship has deepened, I’ve come to realize that Facebook is jealous and demanding. The more time you spend on it, the more it wants. Facebook constantly nags you to update your page by posting a line or so—there’s a strict space limit—about what you’re doing. I swear, people seem to spend more time creating those throwaway blurbs than they would composing a haiku. Since the truth about me is inevitably yawn-inducing (“Sarah is eating the rejected crusts of her kid’s sandwich”), there’s enormous pressure to dream up something thoughtful and witty. And my best lines are too long to make it onto the page. It’s like working with the world’s grumpiest editor.
But for now, I’m staying on Facebook, if only to torture the teenagers. And, um, to figure out how those Hollywood stars really do look so young.
The Web site for Sarah Pekkanen’s debut novel, The Opposite of Me, scheduled for release by Atria books in early 2010, is www.sarahpekkanen.com.
