Recently, life has gotten too busy for me to waste time stalking people on Facebook. SO, maybe this is a false statement but I like to think that my life has elevated to full-time employment status in which I imagine my daily dealings are beyond my idle college years of wasting precious minutes stalking my virtual friends. (But really, it’s probably that I shouldn’t be surfing the web on my work computer anyway.)
Well, I was reunited with the pleasure of Facebook stalking again a few days ago….
The other day was strange for 2 reasons though: 1) My bus was 15 minutes late so I stood outside shivering in the middle of March dressed in thin stockings, pumps, and a lime green linen dress (I like to think I’m eclectic), and 2) I started surfing my Facebook newsfeed on my iPhone. I generally avoid looking at Facebook on my phone because staring at the activities and whereabouts of my “friends” activities suck up my battery and reading about all the great parties I wasn’t invited to and the life-changing humanitarian missions people feel they must share kindasorta depresses me a bit.
Alas, there I was, reading my stupid Facebook news feed waiting for that damn bus. But for some reason, a couple of recently uploaded pictures from a “friend” I’ll call Alli caught my eye.
Besides the fact that Alli and I haven’t really talked or acknowledged each other since middle school, we go way back. Best friends since Kindergarden, Alli and I had the type of friendship that inevitably fades when kids start being cliquey and stop being human. Nonetheless, we were friendly to each other and I like to still think we ended on a genial note.
The photos that had me genuinely and full-on stalking that morning though, felt like a brand-new episode to a crappy t.v. show I watch for no reason but for pure entertainment. There they were, all the kids I had loved to hate, in the same sentiment of their high school glory, reunited and reincarnated in their current 20-something year old bodies. It was oddly addicting and sadly fascinating. Each picture I flipped through featured familiar faces, most of whom I knew a lot about, if only from a distance. It was like high school itself, like seeing a stupid film with actors who aren’t particularly good but whom you watch just for the feeling of some certain memory in time.
Watching them pose with their matured posse, in a hotel room, in front of a casino, dolled up before a fancy dinner, with their “hot” counterparts, it was like an extension of my memory of those hallowed high school halls. It was a manifestation of some sort, like these photos were some strange sort of proof saying “Look at us, we are all so grown and classy and mature, young professionals!” If only they had said, “I’m sorry for the crappy way I was in high school but I’m better now. I could even be your friend.”
No, they weren’t really convincing. But it was a strange feeling, to have a memory of people who were never involved in my life yet for some reason, so involved and how we feel we have to provide proof of how we are growing up. Or we like to think we have grown up.
Nevertheless, I’ve given up on Facebook stalking for now. I’d rather see my real friends in person, and we don’t have to take photos to prove anything.