You're So Vain
Last week, a 22-year-old intern taught me how to create an Instagram story and, truth be told, I’m only slightly ashamed for not knowing how before now. While I’ll never go into exactly what I do for a living in this blog, I will say I work in communications, and I should probably already know. I just don’t because my job doesn’t require me to regularly use social media and I’m only a few years away from comfortably saying ‘get off my lawn’ anyway.
I have a reasonable handle on the things I’m supposed to capture and post, but my biggest problem still remains remembering to take the photos. On Friday, for example, Rod, Van, and I saw Toy Story 4. We were together as a family. We sat in large leather recliners. We ate from a huge bucket of popcorn. Serious “story-worthy” material. And don’t worry, I’m not going to get all ‘I was enjoying the moment and too caught up in the joys of being a mother’ to pick up my phone bullshit. No, I’m quite sure my mind was just wandering, thinking about when my Amazon order would deliver, the number of calories in a bucket of popcorn, and the fact that cowgirl Jessie has a bit of a lazy eye in this most recent film – I mean, it looks a little googly this time around, am I right?
Even as I write on this beautiful, albeit extremely hot evening, outside on my patio, with the sun going down behind me, my cute dog at my feet, and a fresh, pretty decent beer I’d never tried before in my hand, I still think, who the hell wants to see this? Who the hell cares? But I suppose I’ll show you anyway because “likes.” Because hearts. Because I want you to click on my “link in bio” and read this entire post. And, most importantly, because my bangs still look fairly decent given the stifling humidity in the air.
Not a bad writing partner.
Bangs still on point.
Fella, sad he can’t type too.
I decided to become a blogger at a time when the written word has dwindled to nothing more than a hashtag and a location. No one reads anymore, and as a writer it’s crushing. In order to even attempt to get people to read what I write, I’m forced to post pictures and videos and gifs and filters and stickers and other sophomoric items in which I have very little interest. Do I want you to feel sorry for me? Maybe a little.
A colleague recently told me about a study in which current Instagram users were asked their thoughts on whether the platform should remove a user’s ability to see the number of likes on their posts. In other words, a user would still be able to see if someone, anyone, likes a post, but not the specific number of people. Instagram users overwhelmingly agreed they would no longer use the service if this were the case. The rationale behind the proposed switch is to decrease both the competitive spirit among users and online bullying. The result is a bunch of people who shout online that bullying is bad yet need a certain number of hearts to validate their existence as human beings. I am one of these people.
While I can’t understand why anyone would want to see me writing on my patio, if I take the time to post a picture of me writing on my patio, I still want people to see it. To love it. To think, man, her bangs really do look great. In the 10 minutes since I posted a selfie of me writing outside with another image of my beer and my computer, I’ve looked at my phone five times to see how many people have viewed my story. I’m at 11. I’m so lame. Lame for caring and lame for only having 11 views. I can see how this line of thinking contributes to my overall sense of well-being and why Instagram is investigating its new approach in the first place.
I took a few days off from writing this blog to experiment with the stories a bit more. I captured video, tried the silly yet oddly hypnotic Boomerang, and played with stickers, gifs and a slew of typefaces, and I’ll admit, it actually is a lot of fun. With that said, it’s also turning into a mild obsession. I find myself consistently looking at how many people have watched my story and questioning whether they like me – really like me. Are they judging my use of emojis, I wonder? The placement of the date and location on a photo? Should I not write as much text? Do they think I should be posting more images of and anecdotes about Van? More importantly, should I even continue doing this? Do I need another addiction? I already have so many!
I showed my first story, which promoted last week’s blog to the 22-year-old intern and asked whether she liked it. “Mmm hmm…” she said, trailing off. “Is it any good?” I probed. “Well, it’s just your first one,” she said. And then I thought, yep, I’m a fucking loser.
I see the added value in continuing to use stories as a promotional tool for my blog and my (nearly nonexistent) brand, and I understand why others enjoy it for personal use too. People inherently want other people to like what’s important to them, and I suppose that’s why I continue to write in this new Sticker Age (also, narcissism).
I’ll need to watch myself though when it comes to picking up a new bad, albeit filtered, preoccupation. Relying on views and hearts and smiley faces is dangerous business. We all have bad bang days, after all, and I would hate to see the kind of wreck I would be if someone didn’t “like” me on one of mine.
Title Track: “You’re so Vain,” Carly Simon. Listen here.
My favorite place to write.