Once upon a time, I had a Myspace account. I liked it fine. I loved that I could put music on it, change backgrounds, be an antisocial social person. That was really the birthplace of my blog. I used to write all kinds of things, mainly about the nutty neighbors we used to have. It was fun. Then the ads started. And these weren’t the benign, vanilla ads you can just sort of visually tune out. They were obnoxious. They were invariably for some gangsta rapper or death metal band. The posts on people’s walls started to degenerate as well, or maybe I just got too sensitive. Suddenly, Myspace seemed like a virtual hangout for wannabe ghetto thugs and teenagers. I saved my blogs to a thumb drive and committed Myspace suicide.
Does Myspace even exist anymore?
Facebook seems to be dying a slow and horrible death, and it seems to be following a similar path to Myspace. Now I’m being urged to “like” this band, group, religion, politician, virtual movement, brand of pet food, and variety of speculum (I made up that last one). Most recent news is no longer most recent news. The site prioritizes what it thinks I want to see. And which of Snow White’s 7 dwarves am I? Don’t care? How about finding out which Brady kid? There’s a quiz for that. It’s irritating. Most of the people I would care enough to read posts from don’t post; Facebook is passe. The cool kids Twitter. Or Instagram.
I have no idea what Twitter is supposed to be or how it works. So I re-activated my Instagram to try to stay “relevant.” I feel so horribly old and over the hill there. Facebook was bad enough. My brother and his wife are incredibly fashionable. They own a successful boutique in Columbus, OH. My ankle wouldn’t be able to fit in any of the clothing they sell. They post the neatest stuff. There is some musician guy that does “living room tours” that they’re in to. They know the trends, the brands. Their house looks amazing, from the pictures I’ve seen, immaculately decorated. I often feel grateful that they allow me to be their “friend” on Facebook, as I am doubtless one of the least hip and fashionable people they know. I don’t comment on loads of their posts, as I’m afraid I’ll embarrass them. I guess that’s good training for when my kids get older, though, eh? A little trial by fire in preparation for teenage years when Stella and Felix don’t want to be seen with me.
So yeah. I’ve been feeling old, sad, and crotchety lately. It’s like that moment you have when you realize you can’t shop at Old Navy anymore, as most of the inventory is “too young” for you. I guess as long as I don’t start ordering those muumuus they sell in the coupon sections of the Sunday paper, I’ll be OK. In the meantime, I’ll embrace my “mom jeans” and live vicariously though all the younger, hipper people.