I should really get off of Facebook once and for all. I tried one time. I abstained for 3 days, only to give in, log back in, and see that Sara (with no "h" OF COURSE) closed the deal on her sprawling Austin mansion with her one, single child and perfect husband with a six figure salary and a non- existent criminal history (whom she met on the internet OF COURSE).
Mazel Tov.
But alas, nothing goes with my morning coffee quite like a slow, meaningful eyeroll at the latest uploaded sonogram of someone’s stupid triplets (they’ll probably get a full academic scholarship to Cornell, which I’ll know because they’ll post the acceptance letter to Facebook). Or the exaggerated “Oh goddddd….” (followed by an immediate “God forgive me” for using the Lord’s name in vain WHAT DOES THAT VERSE MEAN ANYWAY) at Keisha’s millionth photo of her and her aging sorority sisters holding up their stupid hand signal. I hope they all get some rare form of carpel tunnel that has no Restasis- equivalent cure. And who can forget about the countless “Girls night out/ Work hard, play hard” group photos where said girls wear their finest TJ Maxx finds and all stand crouched down, holding on to their knees, youth, and individual self- esteem displayed in physical form. Their gritted teeth that seem to say, “I’m doing okay but I really thought I’d be a rich stay-at-home mom by now.” It’s a good thing they aren’t Facebook friends with Sara.
All of my delightful Facebook hateration isn’t only estrogenically inclined. Of course there are the quarterly glances at an ex’s Facebook page, to see that, presumably, he married some girl for her family’s wealth, not her looks. But my hater gaze towards men on Facebook tends to lull around watching men struggle to accurately describe their feelings in that empty Facebook status update box. Most don’t try, and just opt for photos of their trucks, trophy wives, or hunting trip bounty.
My Facebook wall? Mostly empty.