The Social Media Effect

Tell me you have her, too. That one acquaintance who seems to take quarterly excursions to exotic, far-off lands. Her grandiose travels always end up splashed all over your News Feed.


“Oh, big surprise, a POV shot of Heather’s pedicured toes in the sand…AGAIN. Wasn’t she just in Tahiti, for crap sake?? Doesn’t she get sick of sipping cocktails from coconuts? And how does she afford these forays, anyway? I hope it rains. No…I hope it monsoons. She must have a sugar daddy, or some major credit card debt…”

You call her an “acquaintance” and not a friend these days because, let’s be frank, you can’t relate. Hell, the most exotic place you’ve been in the past three years is Super Walmart. You’re cranky and bitter. I don’t blame you. But I do blame the social media effect.

What is it, exactly?

It’s that uncanny ability to take a perfectly good Thursday and turn it into a #tbt, with nostalgic photos of days gone by, where you were younger, thinner, and more rested, with a better hair color.

It’s the Man Crush Monday, where everyone you follow gushes about their significant other, and you just concluded a screaming match with yours.

Did everyone else’s baby wake up beaming when yours woke up with an exploded diaper, poop included?

Does everyone else’s husband make them chocolate chip pancake breakfasts in the morning and rub their feet at night?

Why isn’t their pet hiding in shame after being scolded for scratching holes in the oversized chair?

The world is not conspiring against you – those just aren’t the moments you share. They’re not “we gotta get this on camera” occasions, so they’re not included in people’s Camera Roll, and can’t possibly be Facebooked. That’s why you’re not seeing them. They exist in every life, no matter how polished, pedicured, and impossibly picturesque it looks.

So go ahead and share your best. Slap a filter on it. Color it fabulous. And stop hating on Heather so hard…you know you’d join her if you damn well could. You know what’s worse than the perma-vacationer? The constant complainer. Can it, Eeyore, it ain’t that bad.

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