Kittens, Bacon and Self-Control — or, Just Skip That Meme

I was perusing Facebook, minding my own business, when I saw it. I knew it would happen eventually. The hive mentality of social media made it inevitable: take a good idea, make it your own (usually with kittens) and post it. Our Seven Degrees of Bacon world will bring it around to me, eventually — and this morning, it did just that.

I didn't want to see it. It's not my cuppa. In fact, it's my anti-cuppa. I know that, and you know that — but you weren't thinking of me. I just got caught in the trolling net, pressed against your "clever" meme. I think I got a rash from it.

So I did what any self-respecting social media user would do under the circumstances: I hid it.

If all we did was agree to disagree, I could live with it. However, this was more than that: your meme disturbed me. I wasn't "uncomfortable," and you didn't just "push the boundaries." It's not the bacon, or the duct-taped nipples, the smart-ass comments about the bone-head politician you love to hate. It's more. I bet you knew that when you posted it — and that's why you posted it.

Because You Are Right — And If You Share That Information, I Will Come To My Senses.

I already have limited what I see, but, alas, that filter isn't perfect. I can't leave the social media conversation without leaving you — which I know would hurt you deeply. Intellectually, you'd think, "No big deal." But we both know your heart, and it would crack, just a little.

In a true social setting, you and I could have avoided the topic. Well, probably, depending on who else was in the room. If it was your brother-in-law or cousin, I'd be as successfully netted and dragged along. However, in conversation, I would have found a common ground. I would have deflected, or changed the subject, maybe even excused myself to pour bleach in my ears to wash out what I just heard.

However, on social media, you think you're sharing with only the people with whom you agree. We all do. In the thrill of the meme, we hit the "share" button instantly. We forget that social media is one big party where everyone wears their most obnoxious novelty t-shirts — and gnash their teeth at everyone else's t-shirts.

I love you. I love you deeply and with a fierceness that always surprises me. I will hold your hand in the parking lot to keep you safe, give you the plane ticket to get home, drive all night to rescue you if your car stops working. I'll be your safe house, your hiding place.

And yet, on social media, you'll push bacon memes in my face, and I'll push kittens in yours. You think yours are funny/inspiring/truthy, I think mine are harmless. And yet we both have hives.

So today, I showed a little self-restraint: I didn't tweet my smart aleck comment. Somehow, I knew you'd know it was about you, even if I made it vague. Even if I didn't mention the bacon. I knew you'd know. More importantly, I would know.

After that, I skipped something I was going to share. I like edgy from time to time, and so do you. However, this one... It was clever, direct and unflinching. So why did I flinch? I mentally went through my (admittedly modest) list of contacts and saw your name. I knew it would bother you, and I had to choose. I chose you.

This hard-won, late-to-the-game awareness exhausts me almost as much as the social media itself. It's only funny until someone gets hurt — then, depending on your meme, it's "freakin' hilarious" or it's over. I suppose time will tell which I choose.

Waking Up On the Wrong Side of Dawn

I've been up and about on weekday mornings before 6 a.m. — and may I say I hate it?

Wait, maybe "hate" is too strong a word... Nope. I hate it.

I am not, and never have been, a morning person. Let me stay up long into the night, all night, every night. I can burn the midnight oil forever — as long as I can sleep in to make up for it with the proper amount of sleep. What, work until 2 a.m.? Will do! When that "work day" is done, I settle into the quiet of late night and drop off to sleep. I'm up eight hours later, fresh as a daisy, raring to go.

Yet, unless you're a night watchman or bartender, this schedule isn't a regular option.

My husband David works in an industry that embraces Benjamin Franklin's idea of "early to bed, early to rise." For some reason, waking up before dawn is presented as virtuous (as opposed to, say, insane). I bought into it, too, when I was a younger runner: if I ran before the day started, I didn't have to fit it in. As a "get it done" philosophy, it still works.

So, can it work for [fill in the blank]?

For me, that is [reading, writing and social media], which means early morning hours on the computer.

At first, however, it was to meet some deadlines for work. I told myself if I worked in bed, it wouldn't be so bad. (That phrase sounded better in my head.) Anyway, I tried it — and you know what? It wasn't so bad. Oh, the "work" part was challenging, as was the "5 in the morning" part. However, I found a way to make it work: tucked under the covers so the cat could doze on my chest or legs, a cup of joe at my side, a little quiet to focus... it was doable.

Once the push at work was over (for the time being), I decided to try it for myself.

A couple of weeks into The Great Experiment, I can declare it, for the most part, a success. I still have to control my personal social media use — ooh, cute cat photo! funny book poster! — but that's evolving, too, as I learn to focus on the task at hand. I'm still a slow starter, so I "lose" the first bit of the morning. But I can live with that.

Now, the big challenge is getting to bed "on time" to grab my eight hours. (Adults seem to think only youngsters should get to bed early enough to function well. Crazy.) I'll figure it out — or fall on my face trying.

What would you do with an extra hour or two in the day?

Social Media and the Hope for Connection

I'm not sure if it's polite to say this, but Facebook is a time-suck.

I climb on the machine at home after work and hours later, I look up to see the sun has set, the lights have come on and the neighborhood has gone quiet. The cats are snoozing quietly (though that happens during the rest of the non-Facebook part of the day). The laundry hasn't gotten folded, the kitchen is still a mess and I can't focus my vision more than an arm's-length in front of me.

Don't get me wrong. I love the results. I get to chat with Valerie and Nikki whenever we're on the computer together. (I've handled three online conversations simultaneously, with the added degree of difficulty of their father calling out what he wants me to type on his behalf.) I am thrilled by the way Facebook connects me to the people I love. I also enjoy sharing information, making comments, taking quizzes, posting news stories, sharing videos.... the list goes on. And the photos. For the love of all that's holy, the photos!

However, Facebook is not my only source for relationships. What does Facebook mean for those people?

Today I read about how the elderly who use computers can feel less isolated if they join an online community. Now, housebound and elderly people can create new relationships without leaving the safety and comfort of their homes ("Online, A Reason to Keep Going," New York Times, June 2, 2009).

If I was alone, and frail, and frightened, I would hunger for connecting with people I knew from back in the day, or people like me who were alone and needed friends. Thank heavens for the Internet in those cases.

My 80-year-old mother-in-in-law is fortunate. When she moved to Florida from her hometown in New York, she moved with many of her childhood friends, and others joined them in the following years. Few people can claim that circumstance. Had her situation been different, would she have found herself relying on the computer for companionship?

I cannot fathom that life. I have daily exposure to people outside my own home. I spend time in an office with people, I talk to strangers on the phone (wait, that sounds wrong). I interact with people in public places. Even when I was housebound for a month last summer, I was not isolated because my friends and family are mobile and social, like I am. I can't imagine what it would be like to know the only human contact I would have on a given day would be the grocery cashier — and that's only if I made it out of the front door.

Facebook can bring people together in ways we couldn't have imagined when this whole Internet and Web "fad" started a decade and a half ago. True, it can isolate us as easily, but let's hope we use it for the good it can bring us.

My Space on MySpace

I have launched myself into social media with MySpace.

To be fair, it wasn't my idea. Those kinds of places seemed destined for college kids or people "looking for trouble" (due to "pirate hat" kinds of photos — is it a children's party or a drunken revelry?). How better to be misunderstood or trapped in cyberspace than with a Web presence that can be misinterpreted?

Then Valerie asked if I was on MySpace. Her siblings, cousins — heck, her entire family was on MySpace. Why wasn't I? (She was nicer than that.)

So, I decided I'd take the plunge. Oh, I'd start by dipping my little toe into the surf. I'd get a page, get Valerie to "friend" me, then I'd be satisfied. I'd be there, lurking — but without any risk.

Then I started posting a photo or two. These were photos I thought the kids would like to see of themselves and their dad. Then there was photos of David. And of them. And of Conor and Karen and Vicky and Alicia and Mel. And of — me. Oh, nothing scandalous (unless you consider a tiny muffin scandal-worthy!). But why not?

The photos were a hit and Val picked up one right away. (It had her boyfriend Jessie in it — how could she resist?) Then a few others of her siblings. Thankfully I figured out how to set the privacy setting before I posted the tiny muffin photo. (Some things just cannot be explained.)

I have "friended" Vicky, too, hoping for photos or videos of Conor.

Now I have one more reason to spend way too much time on the computer. However, the kids are on, which is the real reason to be in MyCyberSpace. So far, very cool. I'll let you know how it goes.