Finally Determined: TBD, Facebook, and Girls Gone Mild

I’m not the most social animal you’ll ever meet.

Just ask…

Okay, there are a couple of people you could ask.

My oldest/dearest would regale you with stories of sardonic avoidance. While she’s talking though, remember she’s not exactly the life of the party herself. We met at work. I believe the ice-breaker was a question about fellatio. That kind of thing will bond a girl…

My “Spirit Mother”, a Native-American woman who tackled the job of growing me up within months of my thirtieth birthday, will tell you it’s a ruse. She’ll dub me magnanimous and explain, in great detail, the ways in which I’ve proven the depth of my caring, my intelligence, and the innate generosity of my nature.

And, they’d both be right…depending on the day, my level of self-confidence, and the number of days since I’ve been alone.

Really alone.

Because, I have to be.

Not all the time. Everyone knows doing anything all the time is unhealthy.

But I need it some of the time.

Strange as it may sound, being alone actually takes me outside myself. When forced to associate for days on end, my emotions become jumbled. Thinking becomes hard, and sleep, evasive.

Alone time, whether spent writing, reading, or inside the cocoon provided by nose-cancelling earbuds, allows my mind to rest, to find space for the tornadic detritus produced by the effort of showing up.

And, speaking of showing up…

Almost five years ago, I joined a social website on a whim. I’d been surfing the internet, for what I don’t remember. But, I came across an advertisement for a social website built for Boomers.

I’m a Boomer…barely. It gives me a modicum of comfort to be able to say that I qualify by just a few months.

I joined. I conjured a catchy screen-name and used, as an avatar, a photograph taken by my daughter.

Photogenic, I am not. My daughter caught me on an upswing…literally. The photograph was taken while I shared the porch swing with my eldest son. He always makes me smile. She clicked at just the right time.

Over several years, for several hours, several days a week, I forged relationships with people in exotic places like Goshen, New York, Lincoln, Nebraska, and Sydney, Australia.

And we shared. We learned about families, argued about politics, supported artistic effort, and congratulated achievement.

And we laughed. We told jokes, poked fun, and honed our already razor-sharp, sarcastic wits into instruments of cohesive amusement.

And we played…really played…like children play…with abandon, and the certainty that tomorrow, after the responsibilities of “real” life were met, the gang would be there, and we would play again.

And, speaking of real life…

Websites cost money, and ours wasn’t making any. Despite our founder’s best efforts, our playground closed. Seeing the handwriting on the “wall”, several of us joined Facebook in an effort to maintain contact. And then, a few more joined.

“And they told two friends, and they told two friends, and so on, and so on…”

It’s not the same, but its okay. And, when I think about it, I’m amazed. We come from very different backgrounds, different demographics, and various socio-economic strata. We are African-American. We are Asian. We are Christian. We are Agnostic. We are musicians. We are Stay-At-Home-Moms. We are self-employed. We are grandfathers. We are disabled. We are yoga instructors. We love music, sports, and high-heels.

Well, not all of us love sports, but high-heels suffer no such prejudice.

We do all the things we did before, only now we do it under the watchful eye of “3D” family and friends, who read our walls in amazement at the bonds we’ve forged with people far-flung in so many ways.

A couple of years ago, one of our group suggested a meet-up. Meeting at the beach, combined with the aforementioned wit, suggested the title “Girls Gone Mild”. This year, regardless of social ineptitude, I’m one of the girls.

I’d tell you I’m excited, but the word isn’t big enough. I’d say I’m nervous, but that word suggests anxiety…

Okay, I’m anxious.

There are the pounds put on as a result of dying glands and overworked ovaries. And, there’s my hair. It’s long now. He likes it that way. But the color’s all wrong and, in this heat, it hangs.

And there are the shoes. We’re going to the beach. No one wears heels at the beach…but I’ve got this reputation.

For days now, sleep has been elusive. Last night, after what seemed like hours, I finally turned the clock around to see “4:15”, large, blue, and LCD. I’d been awake for a while. The alarm was set to go off in forty-five minutes. I gave up.

A double-click opened my home page. It had been hours since any of my friends posted. I scrolled and read, and didn’t think I’d given myself away, but a red “1” lurking over the message box said different.

“What’re you doing up?”

That’s when I realized that since joining “TBD”, I’ve never, really, been alone.

And, they’ve made all the difference.

>Net-Overworked

When it came to market, I was among the first in line for the IPOD. I had one of the early models, the one that looked like a space-age tic-tac dispenser. I later traded up to the Nano, which I rarely mentioned without thinking of Robin Williams, prompting the duplication pronunciation as in, Nano-Nano. My I-touch came soon after my son received one. Two years later, I’ve yet to meet a cooler gadget. Mine goes with me everywhere.

In all the time I’ve “podded”, I’d never downloaded a podcast, but that was before I ran out of treadmill diversions. Music doesn’t do it for me. Music provides a soundtrack. Rather than taking me to another place, it helps me focus on the task at hand. I don’t want to focus on the treadmill.

Television was an option for a while. Several years ago, I watched an entire season of American Idol on the treadmill. Since then though, I’ve moved it. I’ve taken over the Living Room, turning it into a Game/Workout room. It’s not carpeted, inviting every little noise to travel through a stoned foyer, down a similarly bare hallway, to the door of my son’s bedroom, and that’s a problem. Sometimes I use the treadmill before work. Waking my son at 4:30 AM would only mean trouble for us both.

After hearing someone on television discuss their favorite, a podcast seemed a viable solution; not to mention a reason to spend another hour or so poking around in I-tunes, which is for me, similar to shoe shopping in that I could do it until I run out of money or someone I’m related to shouts “Mom!”.

It took a few minutes to get acclimated, but after perusing “Staff Picks”, and “New and Noteworthy”, I chose a handful of podcasts to audition. I clicked on each icon, downloaded the latest entry, and it wasn’t long before I began to notice a pattern. Many podcasts are supported by websites, and those websites encourage participation in a social network of like-minded listeners.

Really?

Later that day, a friend sent me a link to a site dealing with Kabbalah. I know two things about Kabbalah. I know followers wear a cool, little, red, string bracelet, and I know Madonna is one.

You might say I’m a student of religion. I’ve studied and/or read the text of many religions, from Daoism, to Mormonism, to good old Southern Baptist theology. I even read “Dianetics” and, afterward, sent an email requesting information on becoming a Christian Scientist. I got no response. I never decided if that was a good thing or a bad thing…

I visited the site my friend suggested, and submitted the information required for a fourteen-day, free trial. Almost immediately came the email suggesting I join their social network for those new to Kabbalah.

Really?

Open Salon, too, has become something of a social network. The fact is, you can post all you want, but if you don’t take the time to read other’s posts, add them to your friend’s list, and message them when you add another post, your post probably won’t get read.

I joined Facebook. We all did, didn’t we? I mean, even if you didn’t join to catch up with old friends, or to cheat with old friends, or even just to lurk on old friends’ walls to live vicariously much as you did in high school, you joined to monitor your kid’s activity, right?

Facebook is THE social network of all social networks. All my “friends” are there. I put “friends” in parentheses because I have “friended” people I have never met or even conversed with, in any media, at any time, anywhere. These are people my “real” friends have suggested I “friend”. So, I did.

The fact is, I feel pressured. When a “friend” suggests a “friend”, I feel pressure to friend. When I post on Open Salon, I feel pressured to read. I am 4 days into my free, fourteen-day trial of Kabbalah Online and I feel pressured to rush through the videos so I’ll have something to offer the “group”.

Enough.

Are we this lonely? Where are our friends? Don’t we have anyone to talk to, to share air with?

Or, are we talking everything to death?

Reading Backwards

“Right now, I’m not paying an awful lot of attention to what anyone thinks of me, myself included. I find myself in a state of flux, kind of like I’m trying on new dresses to see which one fits me best. Some I take off right away, and some I wear a few days before trying on something new. I’m having fun, I’m being true to me, and I’m actually looking forward to how I turn out… “

I read this last night as I sifted through over fourteen-hundred posts I have contributed to a social networking site directed at baby-boomers. I can’t remember exactly when I wrote it. I should have included dates when I archived.

The site is closing, and upon a suggestion from one of the administrators, and encouragement from others to do so, I spent several hours this past weekend reading, and saving, and reading, and discarding, and reading, and saving some more.

The quote given is just one among many, that when strung together, actually form a journal I never intended to keep. And, in reading, I learned a lot about me…

The words I wrote were true, at the moment. Life robbed them of their veracity, even if the change is only one of nuance.

For example, it remains true that I care little what others think of me, but the pendulum controlling my “state of flux” seems permanently affixed to one side. I’ve discarded all but the most comfortable of dresses, and my ideas of “fun”, and “me”, have changed so much as to be unrecognizable. All of this became apparent on Day One.

By Day Two, I had slogged through nearly one-half of my posts, and a picture began to emerge. I began to recognize a person I really liked, but had somehow lost inside what is now a well-worn, comfortably baggy dress. Reading, at this point, became uncomfortable, as I not only realized what I had sacrificed, but why. It’s never easy to accept folly in our choices. It’s even harder when you think you have overcome, only to realize that you mistook stagnation for success.

I finished yesterday. As the monitor went dark, I walked away smiling. I intend to use much of the content here, in my blog. But, the most important parts I’ll keep for me.

This morning, I changed my dress…

Saturday Morning

The warm sun and gracious breezes of yesterday are gone. The morning dawns on rain; a reminder to be careful what you wish for….

I’ve sat here for too long, as per usual. So many distractions, so much ether-noise. I’m contemplating creating a net-free day; just one day, every week, during which the rolling chair in my office is allowed to grow cold. I’m warming to the idea.

I prefer lazy Saturdays. Yawning days upon which I can paint whatever vista my mind creates. Today is not one of those days. After struggling to bring some semblance of order to my domicile, I will pull on my warmest athletic clothing and accompany my son to his basketball game. We’ve had fun this year. We are winning, due in large part to my son’s ability. Success breeds fluidity.

A more expansive frame of mind encouraged me to contact a friend and arrange a dinner date for later this evening. As happens so frequently, now that the time is upon me, I consider offering my regrets. But I won’t. I’ll go. We’ll meet in the parking lot, and exchange the usual feminine greetings, or perhaps commiserate about the weather. Once inside, we’ll sit on opposite sides of a highly burnished wooden table and scan the crowd with full knowledge that we are miles from familiar faces. The menu will provide a private moment in which to compose our made-up faces while we flip through a mental tickler file of conversation topics until a particularly savory offering captures our attention, bringing us back to the task at hand. I’ll consider ordering something fatty and delicious, but I’ll give a cursory look at the column featuring soups and salads. I’ll make a choice to keep in my back pocket until time to order, when I’ll encourage her to choose first. My choice will be incumbent upon hers. After all, if her attempts at conversation are punctuated by forkfuls of vinegar-spiked, leafy greens, a beefy morsel won’t rest easily upon my palate.

I was reminded, this week, of the psychological benefits of good works. Today, I am returning to the nursing home. The hospice is housing four patients there. I will visit those I can find. Ms. Lucie is still there. I am looking forward to seeing her. I wonder if she will remember me. Of course, she rarely knew me when she saw me every week, so the question seems a little ridiculous. One the other hand, it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t seem important to her that she know who you are, it is only important that you are, and that you are there. I never left her without a smile. I’m looking forward to wearing one today.