I am a Facebook hater.
It’s funny, because years ago, I was a Facebook addict. There was little I enjoyed more than checking in daily with my peeps, posting status updates and comments, and joining in the games on our very own virtual playground. It was my second greatest social outlet.
But…life happened. And life isn’t always pretty. And Facebook became something to hide from, rather than something to enjoy. It still feels that way.
Sometimes, I love to see updates and photos of everyone celebrating life. But sometimes, seeing all those happy, glowing photos filled with smiling faces can be a little too much. Friends together at parties. Friends at concerts, singing along with the band. Friends camping. Friends waving from the bleachers at sports arenas. Friends running in races, striking goofy poses for the camera.
Like. I click the button from time to time. Like. Like. Sometimes I post the obligatory family photos of my kids, and a few people (strangers and distant relatives, mostly) click like, too. It’s a never-ending circle of shares and likes that mean so little, really.
Maybe it is a kind of envy, the gnawing, empty feeling I get sometimes when I peek at everyone else’s happy chronicles of adventures with their friends. It is dumb, really. I love my quiet life with my three great kids. Together, we have plenty of fun. We camp. We hike. We roller skate. We laugh together. I am not bound to travel through life completely alone, because I get to enjoy them nearly every day.
But still. There’s this constant yearning. If only I had one friend. One good friend. One who would be as happy to hear from me as I would be to hear from them. One who would be like – What? Go to a soccer game/concert/camping/karaoke/movie/party/weird new restaurant/bookstore/lecture/farmer’s market/have a cup of coffee/whatever? I’m in! Relaxed, caring, reciprocal coolness together.
It’s not like I don’t put forth an effort. I’ve tried a number of times in the past few years to make acquaintances, and then nudge that toward friendship. Sometimes, I think that maybe I’m close. But it is so…I don’t know…difficult. Maybe it is due to my INTJ way of seeing the world. Maybe it is my insecure way of fearing that our feelings are always one-sided instead of mutual. (Or maybe that is not the voice of insecurity, but of wise intuition).
Maybe it is a strange sort of Catch-22, in which my lack of friends frightens away potential friends, as though they can sense the desperation hidden beneath my calm, cheerful exterior. Please be my friend? And I, afraid of seeming too needy, quickly back off, too. And so, friendship doesn’t happen. And I return to my cave and my world of imagination.
If I had just one good friend, then today, perhaps we would have sat in the stands together, cheering on Manchester United as they beat Barcelona. (Those are um, soccer teams).
Together with my one good friend, maybe I would have found the courage to go to a downtown event that my Meetup acquaintances mentioned earlier today.
With one good friend, maybe I would go eat inside of restaurants instead of getting takeout and watching old shows on Netflix by myself.
Maybe that one good friend would even help to connect me to a few more friends, and together, we would all go out to roller skate or dance to celebrate my upcoming 40th birthday. And maybe take a few silly, fun photos to post for the Facebook peeps, like all the not-so-lonely people do. Or not.
Or maybe I will just live it all in my head, then write about it in my creative, introverted way. Which is okay, too.