Ginormous Time Wasters

What are we, back in junior high again?

I recently joined Facebook and I find myself spending each and every day receiving emails from people I haven’t spoken to in 30 years who are begging me to “friend” them.

Recently I received a “posting” from a guy I haven’t seen since the 5th grade at St. Michael’s when he was laughing so hard that milk and spaghetti came through his nose. Can’t wait to catch up with you, Mike!

For those of you who have been busy doing prostrations and living in a cave meditating with your lama, Facebook would be a “social networking site.” Basically, it’s like having a multi-decade yearbook and a super-detailed global phone book located on your computer.

Why do you need this, you ask? So you can stalk old boyfriends/girlfriends of course. It’s an embarrassing, pathetic, and highly entertaining method for supposedly mature adults to check to see if old lovers lost their hair or gained weight. I find myself asking: “Is she fatter than me?” or “Can those boobs possibly be real?” or “Is he divorced yet?” or “Does it mention what he does for a living?”

I can’t decide what my favorite part of Facebook is: The people who do a personal profile listing every intimate detail of their daily lives, or the ones who put up 800 photos of their “babies,” which is apparently code for their pets dressed up in clothing.

What about the men who work out until they’re shaped like an inverted triangle, lube themselves up (with what I can only assume is Crisco), and take shirtless pictures of themselves to post for the world to see? Or could it be the seemingly normal women who put up hundreds of photos of themselves in bikinis during drunken trips to Cabo or risqué shots where they are dressed as hookers for Halloween?

I also really appreciate the fact that you can send each other “flowers” or “hugs” or “chocolate chip cookies” or “hits with a pillow” while you’re busy putting in the components to find out moronic things like what your porn star name would be (Tuck Spruce … I only did it for research sake).

I’ve lived next door to my neighbor for three years and probably chatted in person six times. I was on Facebook for about a half hour before she popped up and wanted me to join a group to help save puppies. Now, if I don’t “post on her wall” fluffy flop-eared pets with sad eyes will be dropping left and right and it will be all my fault. Who can take that kind of pressure? Puppies are depending on me, for God’s sake!

After you post your first few pithy comments on your “wall,” you realize anyone who is on your “friends list” can read this stuff. You’re supposed to write personal messages in a different spot. So, how many people around the world did I just accidentally tell about the underwire in my bra breaking or the tattoo I’m getting removed?

I fear I’m not a good fit for this Facebook thing. I don’t want to make myself into an “animated cartoon” and I don’t know or care why you would want to send me a “lighthouse” or give me a “virtual poke.” If I need to know what the weather is like in your area, what you’re having for dinner, or what your kids wore to prom, I’ll call. Just like back in the olden days.

— Mary Closner is busy taking calls on her rotary-dial phone when she isn’t adding things up with her abacus.