17 Oct My “Friends”
I am an observer. I could spend hours people watching. The intersection between being an observer and social media is an interesting one. I post very infrequently to Facebook. My criterion is strict and almost impossible to meet: Is it a special event such as a birthday or other major milestone for someone in my immediate family?
Sometimes I will spend close to an hour working on a status update and then decide to delete it all. It’s exhausting. So instead I scroll. I admire the rapid posters. The people who have a thought and feel compelled to share it with the world. That is just not me.
I see vacations, birthdays, political rants, quotes, accomplishments, children’s birthdays, anniversaries, promotions and new jobs. And as an observer, I absorb it all. In my scrolling I feel like I know these people well.
Last weekend, we were dining outside (you have to treasure the precious time of year in Scottsdale, Arizona, when it doesn’t feel like you are sitting in an oven), and I saw one of my Facebook “friends.”
I actually went to high school with her. We weren’t close in high school, and I think the only reason we are Facebook friends is because there was a massive friend request flurry that happened after my 10-year high school reunion. That was nearly nine years ago.
My “friend” Kim was sitting with her husband at the table right next to us. She glanced in my direction, and I waved with the friendliness of a long-lost friend. I even debated going over and hugging her. And it was only when she exchanged my wave with the most apathetic hand movement and a look of, “What is with the excessive friendliness, creepy lady?” that I got it: She did not know me.
But of course she didn’t know me. I post with an infrequency that makes me nonexistent. I “Like” so selectively and “Love” almost never, that of course I wasn’t on her radar. I was invisible to her. Yet—sitting next to this frequent Facebook poster—I felt like we were best friends.
Am I a creeper? I’m not sure. She was the one who put all of these details out there. But I suddenly felt guilty for knowing so much. For recognizing her. For knowing the details of her life that she didn’t seem to know I knew.
She saw my girls swinging upside down on a bike rack nearby, and she commented that this restaurant was a great place to bring kids. She shared that she had a daughter who would love swinging in the way my girls were swinging.
Well of course your daughter Sidney—who is six and who does gymnastics on the weekends and who you call your ‘little monkey’—would like that, I think. I smile and say, “Oh! You have a daughter? How old is she?” As if I didn’t know.