Why you won't find me on social media
I’m not sure that my avoidance of social media was ever really a concerted effort on my part.
You like keeping in touch with family, friends, or that rando from the office? Go for it. Ass out on the beach, peach emoji icon with a creative hashtag? You do you.
Simply put, I suck at social media.
I’ve dabbled in MySpace (oh, how I’ve dated myself with that!), Instagram -- even SnapChat. But in the same way that I’ve also dabbled in square dancing or baking, just because I’ve tried something doesn’t mean I should keep doing it.
People will sometimes ask, “so, you aren’t ‘on’ anywhere?”
“I’ve got a LinkedIn,” I’ll offer self-deprecatingly like I’m a grandparent bragging that I know how to use “the Google”.
But in reality, I suck at LinkedIn too. It's a vital part of the job process nowadays if you want to be taken seriously, and I participate as minimally as I'm allowed. It’s aspirational on purpose, sure, but when did everyone become so good at writing posts that are “honest” or being “disruptive” in their industry of choice?
Where are my competent yet directionless peeps at?
“I’m not sure that my avoidance of social media was ever really a concerted effort on my part. Simply put, I suck at social media. ”
I don’t have an elevator pitch decrying the trappings of the cult of the “like”. There’s an argument to be made for how these platforms can negatively impact young and old. And there’s certainly a unique flavor of douchebaggery that’s been monetized on popular platforms like Instagram, Facebook, or whatever-the-fuck kids these days post on. But that’s not why I abstain from those platforms.
I don’t have the je ne sais quoi online or offline that captures the friends, connections, likes, whatevers that signals to people that I’m doing passably okay at this thing called life. Damn if that doesn't hit me right in the sense of self-worth.
I’m not used to committing this hard at cultivating a public personality. Growing up, we moved every year or two. The first day of school was a terrifying leap into the abyss of cliques, hormones, and subpar school lunches (where stale pizza is often a vegetable). The faces changed, and I could too -- reinventing my demeanor, persona, interests where I saw fit.
No one would know that I had a botched pixie cut in sixth grade that made me look like a boy. They wouldn't recall all those times I spent my lunch period in the library because I didn't have anyone to sit with. Or any litany of embarrassing incidents or phases I've gone through as a child, teen, or adult.
I can logic my way to an understanding that these moments are necessary for growth -- that everyone goes through them. Or that I don’t need a large friend count, that my worth as a person isn’t tied to something so arbitrary. But it’s a bit easier -- nay, a bit more familiar -- to not cultivate those connections. To be just vulnerable enough to let people in, up until the time I’m off to the next place to create a new story for myself.
That, or I really don’t want a paper trail of that time my hair came out less Winona Ryder and more suburban soccer mom with an edge.
