Allow me, if you will, to begin with a story — not that you really want to hear about the mundane occurrences of my lackluster existence. Wow, that was emo. But seriously, I’m pretty sure you are more concerned about which pair of socks to wear to the gym than you are about any bit of information I might have to share with you. Regardless, bear with me, please, because I swear I have a point — scout’s honor and everything. Except, I’m not sure that scout’s honor applies if you’re not a scout. I’ll have to look it up.
So the other day, I was introduced to someone through a mutual friend — not anything staggeringly strange so far. But meeting this new person was a little odd, because I kind of already knew him: Aware of the friend we shared, he had friend-requested me on Facebook a couple of months ago. He had even sent a message introducing himself and suggesting that we meet in person at some point. Totally weird? No. A bit random? Perhaps.
When said person and I finally met face-to-face, I casually mentioned our online encounter. But, alas, at my reference to the online social networking site that is Facebook, he only shrugged and didn’t (pretended not to?) know what I was talking about. So, as my luck would have it, I ended up looking like the biggest creeper ever. The end.
Okay, not exactly a fairy tale, I know. There was no glass slipper, no flying carpet — not even some absurd breakout of song and dance performed by dining utensils. But this fun little narrative does bring my mind to subjects previously unexplored, forcing me to wonder: Why is it that talking about Facebook in real life is so incredibly and undeniably awkward? Why do people get uncomfortable, shift in their seats or look away when you ask them if they got your wall post or bumper sticker? When was it decided that conversing about virtual reality in actual reality was taboo?
We all live on Facebook. We all check our profiles multiple times a day, hoping for a new notification or friend request. We all look at pictures posted by people we don’t even talk to, just to see if their lives are more fun than ours. We all type our teaching assistants’ names into the search bar, hoping to get some secret dirt on them. And yet we all deny it. Why?
I can only derive one logical explanation for this bizarre trend of Facebook-denial, and it goes like this: We rely on Facebook. Facebook is on the Internet. So, by some law with a fancy Latin name, we rely on the Internet. Now, when you think of people who rely on the Internet, what typically comes to mind? I see rows of glasses-clad men with pocket protectors and far too much knowledge of the Pythagorean Theorem. And they are all named Elliot.
Do we want to be like the Elliots of the world? No! And we’ll do anything necessary to mask our inner geek. So even when we are dying to tell someone about our latest status update, we can’t. And even when we are tempted to whine about how the new Facebook sucks, we have to keep quiet. Because goodness forbid we momentarily don’t appear as cool as we are constantly expected to be. Then others would judge us, rip away our façades and take us for the pathetic, Internet-dependent Elliots that we are. It is that fear that drives us to stay silent.
But the thing is, the people judging us are Elliots, too, aren’t they? I’m sure they all stalk their crushes, read Wall-to-Walls that don’t concern them and personalize their account settings to a T. So does that make every one of us sad, pathetic losers? By golly, I think I’ve got it.
I’ll spare you the “Full House”-esque dialogue with clichés like, “Just be yourself” and “There’s a light at the end of the tunnel” because you can probably draw the conclusions on your own. But the next time you face the impulse to list your Facebook events aloud, I say go ahead and do it. Shout them if you want to. More power to you, kid. Because anyone who mocks you for spending too much time on the Internet and not having a “real life” is only trying to disguise his or her own Facebook dependency. Sounds like something only a sad, pathetic loser would do.
Lauren’s column runs biweekly Thursdays. She can be reached at l.kimmel@cavalierdaily.com.
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