(NOVEMBER 2008)
Truthfully, I am more of a skeptic.
I’m not a big believer in spiritual healing, Feng Shui, or acupuncture. I don’t put much stock in superstition, stain removers, or the South Beach Diet. I scoff at strange men in jumpsuits practicing tai-chi in the dog park. I dismiss shrinks. On weekends, I pity glassy-eyed vegans in Whole Foods, stockpiling capsules of St. John’s Wort and fish oil pellets into their carry carts like gluttons at the Old Country Buffet. In all honesty, I sweep them into the same dustpan as horoscope junkies and tarot card party-goers. I cringe at the term, “soul mate” (especially during saccharin-sweet romantic comedies), roll my eyes during yoga, and jeer every time I read an article about the supposed health benefits of chocolate. I stopped believing in Santa Claus at nine. I struggle with the concept of an omniscient almighty Creator. And even as a child, I never accepted that a chapped kiss from a gay prince aroused Sleeping Beauty from eternal slumber.
However, I am willing to try anything once. Especially something that defies cliché.
Last week, my friend, Sarah told me about a wholistic health spa southwest of Chicago run by a gaggle of Franciscan nuns.
“Nuns?” I defied, certain I had misheard.
“Yes, nuns. Petite virtuous ladies with sandals and short hair. Their answering machine signs off ‘Peace be with You.’” Sarah paused, insistent. “They are the real deal.”
My interest peeked. A Catholic convent operating a full-service spa with bikini waxes, gong vibrations, and reiki meditations? This was definitely worth a 65-minute drive down LaGrange Road next Saturday. Did the bishop know?
*****
We steered the mini-van down meandering asphalt lined with massive quaking oaks, skinned of their leaves for the winter. The grounds were dotted with miniature Nordic chapels that conjured images of the Seven Dwarves returning from lumber work on a stark frigid night. A dried-up ravine veined through the acreage and ducked behind the main structure, the Motherhouse. Along the bushes, two fake deer posed as lawn ornaments and in the distance, a dijon-tinted country house squatted under the shaded arms of an evergreen tree. I guessed before I had even spotted the sign, Sacred Sound and Wellness Spa.
A tinkle of a bell chimed when we entered through a glass door and into an intimate waiting room, smelling faintly of jasmine blossoms. Four oversized plush chairs ideal for napping curled around a coffee table and trickling water statue. On the far side, a tidy assortment of herbal teas with ceramic mugs hugged the edge of an old cherry work desk while the shelves above stocked books on prayer and Catholic meditation. A small needlepoint crucifix dangled off-center above the entryway.
Sister Anne emerged from the hallway with a radiant smile on pale skin, extending both arms as if we were family visiting from abroad.
“Welcome,” she cooed in the soft caress of a mother with an infant asleep in the next room. “We are so delighted you are here.” She embraced both of our hands by cupping them within her own. “What services can we offer you today?” Her fingers were thin and warm.
I scanned the brochure card tented on the coffee table:
Massage Reiki Spiritual Facial Gong Vibration Floating Meditation
No waxing. But, the prospect of being slathered in lotion and rubbed down in nothing but my underwear by a sacred sister of the church was a tad shocking. I had memorized The Sound of Music. Those women were pious, solemn, and cloaked in yards of matronly dense black wool.
“Do you perform the actual massages?” I asked, cocking my head to the side, sizing up her four-foot stature.
“Oh, no,” she chuckled easily. “We have certified therapists for all that. I’m just here to ensure everyone departs with positive energy.” She curved her hands in front of her as if outlining the circumference of a basketball.
I raised an eyebrow. It sounded incredibly Berkeley-esque for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit doctrine.
Sister Anne beamed at us and gestured to the front door. “While you are waiting, you must walk the labyrinth before your session. It is so peaceful and really aligns the spirit. It is just down the path before the creek.”
Labyrinth? Had I ventured into a C.S. Lewis novel? Sarah and I exchanged glances.
*****
The labyrinth wasn’t nearly as impressive as I had envisioned. It was a pancake flat concentric pattern of linear bricks and paths of white stone, half-buried in decaying autumn leaves. I had pictured a grand mysterious structure with eight-foot walls like the hedge maze in The Shining. Instead this obstacle elicited the thrill of a slide on a preschool playground.
Sarah rounded to the opposite side and began treading up one of the entry points. I grimaced into my scarf, but not wanting to appear unenthusiastic, strided up the path in front of me. The gravel crunched beneath my sneakers and the eerie echo of a crow reverberated off the tree skeletons. The daylight was beginning to fade as the wind picked up and bristled the skin around my coat collar. This was so ridiculous. I could see the next turn. Where were the challenges? The dead-ends?
I plodded along in silence, staying within the bricks and swerving around the corners, pivoting in the opposite direction that I had just traveled. I could hear the shifting of stones on the opposite side, but I didn’t speak. I wasn’t sure how seriously Sarah was taking this. For all I knew, she was praying.
As soon as I figured I was getting close to breaking into the core, the path would divert and clip me back out to its outer rings in blatant defiance. I trampled along in avid concentration like a schoolgirl stepping over sidewalk cracks in the pavement. I spotted the back of Sarah’s red jacket. She was stationary in the middle. She had reached the coveted center. I still lingered pathetically along the far edges. What kind of trail had I gotten on anyway? The extra-long route? I scanned the alleyway ahead. It couldn’t be more than a few yards now.
I quickened my pace, but still the twists and curves paced on in lethargic sequence, relentless and haunting. What was wrong with me? Had Sarah figured out some secret method? Was this some kind of practical joke? I felt my face flush and breath accelerate as I contemplated leaping over the bricks a few times to cheat closer to the center. I panicked and whipped around, ready to abandon the mission.
Suddenly, I realized Sarah was no longer perched at the axis. She had slinked off in the distance and was meandering toward a field of long-necked Canadian geese, pecking at the November earth. I was alone.
I came to an abrupt halt and closed my eyes. I breathed in the cold and felt the vapors of exhale moisten my chin. I rarely shut my eyes during the day. I rarely ceased all motion. But, I was alone and the opaque darkness pacified my mind like a child’s blanket. Stillness seemed to settle over my body and I heard my voice in a foreign whisper, “No one is timing you.”
I would walk. Steadily. Calmly. In patient rhythm. Even if twilight descended and the stones disappeared beneath my feet like the ocean floor in deep currents. I would walk the path. Trust that I would get there eventually. Trust that I would not be led astray or looped in a revolving circle.
I would walk the path.
I did reach the center. Just a short distance ahead. I followed in sequence as the space converged and filtered into the vast gray core of ancient design. My confidence swelled. I stood there for a few minutes, my heels pressed together to fit within the precise center stone and I heard their wings. The flock of geese paraded overhead in gorgeous geometry, exchanging places in silent negotiation. Their massive wingspan churned the air, rocked the ginkgo branches, and fixed my gaze on their flight. All within fleeting seconds. I wondered how I appeared to them from the sky, standing straight as a bicycle spoke, in a labyrinth of lines and circles and ashen rock.
“Is your spirit aligned?” Sarah’s voice startled me from behind.
I turned and nodded with a smile, surprising myself. “I’m sorry I took so long.”
She looked at me quizzically. “I hadn’t noticed.”
*****
We were quiet as we traced our way back along the cement and I found myself contemplating her question. Is your spirit aligned? My spirit. I knew she meant the question in jest, but I did feel absolved of something. Something elusive and intangible.
My spirit is twenty-eight years old. Divorced. I am coming to know her. Last July she visited her OB for advice on pre-natal vitamins. The following Tuesday she discovered her husband’s affairs. She is not on the path she thought, but she’s beginning to accept a divergence to one that will inevitably compose another life. One that might just stretch and wind. One that might be just as good.
As we walked away from the labyrinth that late afternoon and into the warm blonde light of the center for our treatments, I recalibrated. Although, I generally consider myself to be a skeptic, I’m willing to admit that I can also sometimes be a believer.
Nov 23, 2008
Nov 3, 2008
Voting Undrama
(NOVEMBER 2008)
My voting experience was quizzically ordinary. Maybe it was all the hype from this election that forecasted its disappointment like the Blair Witch Project curse or Oprah’s last book, The Secret. But, I was expecting more bells and whistles. I was envisioning departing the exit booth with a swagger in my step and flip in my bob. There were no palpitations, flutters, or spontaneous sighs of patriotic satisfaction. There wasn’t even a line.
Okay, so I voted early. I was one of those neurotic type A’s who speed over to City Hall during a lunch break the second morning of early voting. I tactically avoided Day #1, anticipating the growing pains of paperwork, procedure, and 82 year-old volunteers with orthopedic shoes, flag pins, and no concept of efficiency. Who else can they get on duty at 11am? I figured they’d have at least memorized the routine by Day #2 lunch.
I stepped into the main vestibule, expecting the air to be orchid-house thick - the exhaust from vicious political friction and oppressive body heat. But, it was quiet enough to hear my boot heels click on the linoleum and a lovely October breeze fluttered through the three inch gaps along the lobby windows. It was a perfect 71 degrees. I approached the reception desk and nodded at a balding man in bifocals, bearing a lopsided nametag – Hello, I’m Hank. He grinned widely, adjusting his frames, and gestured to a far table by twisting his entire body to the right. Had he actually been reading a book?
“Just fill out your name, address, and county and be sure to get your driver’s license all ready. That is very important.” He winked and I smiled with the forced civility of a frequent flier being reminded by TSA to remove their loafers.
“Will do.” I raised a hand in attempted affability and reached inside my bag. I had stuffed my Social Security card, passport, voter’s registration, original birth certificate (with the seal), and several major credit cards deep within my Marshall’s purse. Having been scarred from multiple disasters at the DMV that made traveling to the Middle East appear as trivial as a game of Frisbee, I was determined to arm myself with reserves.
A younger woman with an eye tick checked my license behind a laptop computer and I waited, eyes darting around the room in search of someone to share my elated anticipation of voting for the first Black President. Where were the crowds, the buzz, the tactile evidence of history in the making? I may have even frowned when she neglected to ask for a second form of ID. The public library isn’t even that lenient. Instead, she pointed to one of the open stations with Tylenol-red plastic stools and I settled along the back wall to secure my privacy. The touch screen was a cinch – no dimpled ballots or poorly punched chads to incite drama or panic. Behind the viewing glass, the system printed an itemized receipt like you get at the local hardware store and then rocketed it off into oblivion - my Vote for Change officially counted.
I cleared my throat and peered up, hoping I’d discover a snaking line of citizens shoulder-slumped behind the registration desk. But, no jittery mob appeared to confirm my brilliant tactic of arriving pre-lunch rush. I suppose I should have been gushing with gratitude that I didn’t have to wait three hours like those voters in Gary with their single machine. Channel 2 news had videotaped them napping with heads pressed against the wall and shoes strewn to the side like stranded passengers at an airline terminal. I felt an adverse tensing of my jaw. Those folks were truly making a statement.
Perhaps, the early voting consequentially spread out the excitement like a thin layer of mustard on rye, but I did expect to endure something unpleasant– a faulty machine, whiny toddler, or at least a line worthy of womens’ ballpark bathrooms. But, my experience was as boring as brown corduroy. It wasn’t until I exited the building and turned my car onto the local road that I finally had my moment of tickled inspiration.
They were there in masses – plastering the bumpers of all shapes, sizes, makes, models, and colors. White with block letters, round ones, long rectangles, cursive, bordered, bold-faced and blue. Obama and Biden. The stickers were everywhere as lights changed, horns blared, and pedestrians careened down crosswalks. I just had not noticed the sheer quantity before. They were a part of our everyday environment and yet, a rhythm of our revolution. Our voices and words and commitment to a movement. The voters would be there - in their own time on their own day. I was sure of it. I peeked down at my “I voted” sticker on the back of my hand and felt a swelling of pride. I patted it gently and ultimately understood, change did not always have to be measured by the length of a line.
My voting experience was quizzically ordinary. Maybe it was all the hype from this election that forecasted its disappointment like the Blair Witch Project curse or Oprah’s last book, The Secret. But, I was expecting more bells and whistles. I was envisioning departing the exit booth with a swagger in my step and flip in my bob. There were no palpitations, flutters, or spontaneous sighs of patriotic satisfaction. There wasn’t even a line.
Okay, so I voted early. I was one of those neurotic type A’s who speed over to City Hall during a lunch break the second morning of early voting. I tactically avoided Day #1, anticipating the growing pains of paperwork, procedure, and 82 year-old volunteers with orthopedic shoes, flag pins, and no concept of efficiency. Who else can they get on duty at 11am? I figured they’d have at least memorized the routine by Day #2 lunch.
I stepped into the main vestibule, expecting the air to be orchid-house thick - the exhaust from vicious political friction and oppressive body heat. But, it was quiet enough to hear my boot heels click on the linoleum and a lovely October breeze fluttered through the three inch gaps along the lobby windows. It was a perfect 71 degrees. I approached the reception desk and nodded at a balding man in bifocals, bearing a lopsided nametag – Hello, I’m Hank. He grinned widely, adjusting his frames, and gestured to a far table by twisting his entire body to the right. Had he actually been reading a book?
“Just fill out your name, address, and county and be sure to get your driver’s license all ready. That is very important.” He winked and I smiled with the forced civility of a frequent flier being reminded by TSA to remove their loafers.
“Will do.” I raised a hand in attempted affability and reached inside my bag. I had stuffed my Social Security card, passport, voter’s registration, original birth certificate (with the seal), and several major credit cards deep within my Marshall’s purse. Having been scarred from multiple disasters at the DMV that made traveling to the Middle East appear as trivial as a game of Frisbee, I was determined to arm myself with reserves.
A younger woman with an eye tick checked my license behind a laptop computer and I waited, eyes darting around the room in search of someone to share my elated anticipation of voting for the first Black President. Where were the crowds, the buzz, the tactile evidence of history in the making? I may have even frowned when she neglected to ask for a second form of ID. The public library isn’t even that lenient. Instead, she pointed to one of the open stations with Tylenol-red plastic stools and I settled along the back wall to secure my privacy. The touch screen was a cinch – no dimpled ballots or poorly punched chads to incite drama or panic. Behind the viewing glass, the system printed an itemized receipt like you get at the local hardware store and then rocketed it off into oblivion - my Vote for Change officially counted.
I cleared my throat and peered up, hoping I’d discover a snaking line of citizens shoulder-slumped behind the registration desk. But, no jittery mob appeared to confirm my brilliant tactic of arriving pre-lunch rush. I suppose I should have been gushing with gratitude that I didn’t have to wait three hours like those voters in Gary with their single machine. Channel 2 news had videotaped them napping with heads pressed against the wall and shoes strewn to the side like stranded passengers at an airline terminal. I felt an adverse tensing of my jaw. Those folks were truly making a statement.
Perhaps, the early voting consequentially spread out the excitement like a thin layer of mustard on rye, but I did expect to endure something unpleasant– a faulty machine, whiny toddler, or at least a line worthy of womens’ ballpark bathrooms. But, my experience was as boring as brown corduroy. It wasn’t until I exited the building and turned my car onto the local road that I finally had my moment of tickled inspiration.
They were there in masses – plastering the bumpers of all shapes, sizes, makes, models, and colors. White with block letters, round ones, long rectangles, cursive, bordered, bold-faced and blue. Obama and Biden. The stickers were everywhere as lights changed, horns blared, and pedestrians careened down crosswalks. I just had not noticed the sheer quantity before. They were a part of our everyday environment and yet, a rhythm of our revolution. Our voices and words and commitment to a movement. The voters would be there - in their own time on their own day. I was sure of it. I peeked down at my “I voted” sticker on the back of my hand and felt a swelling of pride. I patted it gently and ultimately understood, change did not always have to be measured by the length of a line.
Nov 1, 2008
Facebook Frivolity
Sallie Smith has requested your friendship.
I must confess, I do relish in being pursued. Since I joined Facebook last week, the names have flash-danced across my yahoo inbox: some familiar, some unknown, some unleashing insecurities last endured in the sixth grade locker room. Still, the majority of notifications elicit the smug gratification of a well-timed high five. It feels good to be liked. It is good to have friends. And even better, to flaunt them out in the open.
What is this Facebook phenomenon? Is it simply the latest in e-trends, propelling the streaming shift from letters to phone calls, from email to texts, from messaging to “friending”? Is it coincidence that this new generation of communication is even less communicative than the one prior? Could Facebook just be another way to indulge our friendship sloth?
Composing letters demand time. They are drafted with measured penmanship on crisp stationary and sealed with actual human saliva. You search in vain for the correct address, sized envelope, and currently valid stamp. You tromp three blocks in the snow to a squatty blue-boxed oasis with a squeaky metal shoot and then, trust it all to the US Postal Service. You wait. You have invested the time and energy and now you endure the quaintly old-fashioned delay of receipt. But, then it is received, and for a moment, you cause someone to feel as idolized as a first born grandchild.
Chatting over the telephone allows for more spontaneity and instantaneous banter, but still, consumes the clock. Phone talk demands a chunk of our day to truly catch someone up on our life, especially those out-of-the-loop, long distance friends we feel obligated to ring on major holidays. Personally, I tend to delay those calls, knowing thirty minutes will never suffice – only to determine a week later than the required minimum time has swelled to a deterrent forty-five. If you’re like me, we spot certain names on caller IDs and usher them straight to voicemail, especially if they’re brazen enough to call halfway through Grey’s Anatomy.
Alternatively, emails are succinct, colloquial and uninhibited. We don’t have to spell correctly, remember “i” before “e”, or edit for parallel structure. They are as unobtrusive as midnight custodians, doing their job, but not expectant of gratitude or fanfare. Unfortunately, they can also reek of self-indulgence. Emails are dispensed as blithely as they are dismissed. We are all guilty of dropping the dutiful, “What’s new?” without having to commit to an actual conversation. We check the person off our “to-do” list and strategically, it becomes their “turn” – their prerogative to respond when they have time. After all, we have to get to the gym, pick up the dry cleaning, refuel the sedan, and order pepperoni pizza. We are busy. They are busy. No one has to sacrifice.
T2UL Talk to you later. Anyone over twenty-five, may find it increasingly vital to enroll in a class on the language of text. In this adolescent universe, complete sentences are discouraged and the least number of letters to convey a point is studied, revered and emulated like primate tool use in chimpanzee populations. Brevity reigns and eloquence is discouraged. Texts can be typed and transmitted in a span of seconds – in the cab, under the dinner table, or in a movie theater, simply to irritate the patrons behind you. Dude, this flick blows – LOL.
And now, with even less effort you can connect to your peers with an instant search and swift click of the mouse. To “friend” someone has been conjugated into an active verb without any action or verbalization. This behavior is catapulting forth a generation of students who connect primarily online. Any alternative fraternizing rarely occurs sober. The solidarity of a handshake, an intimate phone call, or shared experience is not vital to the modern concept of friend. All you need is a name, modem, and sleek Mac Air.
As of this morning, I had 79 friends. I don’t think that is considered impressive, although I am doing better than the suburban moms who signed up to post photos of their kids and months later can’t remember their log-in codes. Still, it is not college sophomore caliber either. I do presume my list is more qualified. In fact, I ventured into this process, curious to discover whom I might unearth, but also weary of polluting my posse with former high school classmates I never respected, let alone extended a solitary thought to in twelve years. But, these random friend requests nudge their way into my utopia and threaten its very purity. Like sex without a condom, these outliers are hard to resist. This guy would put me over #80 and after all, I don’t want to damage an ego. In this spirit, posting on Facebook seems to mimic the rituals of thumping on chests or flaunting of feathers. Maybe it is more muted and certainly less barbaric than thrashing vines in the jungle, but it is a popularity contest. Plain and simple.
Web-based communication seems to have evolved into a sly craft. Suddenly, we can bypass having to nurture real and tangible relationships that involve coffee steam, nonverbal cues, and, if you’re lucky, a parting embrace. With the adoption of Facebook, we can “tickle”, “poke”, or send a clip-art carrot cake cupcake, but we are not touching anyone or turning on an oven. We reach out through wires, cables, and technology, but not with our hands or voices. Sallie Smith may post that she has a headache and Joe Johnson may have devoured an entire bag of Peanut M&M’s, but we are not invested. The communication is passive and suddenly the intimacies of friendship are reduced to a bulletin board of futile online post-it-notes.
Let’s consider how many of these freshly found pals we will actually develop any form of bond with over time? Perhaps when bored at work, we’ll spy on the attractiveness of an ex-boyfriend’s spouse or scoff at an old classmate’s smutty pictures from a bachelorette party. Maybe these tolerated voyeuristic opportunities will lead to envy, lust, or even appreciation. Or maybe it is all benign. Alternatively, we all could be threading a sharp needle.
Personally, I am terrified of inhabiting a world infected with indifference where friends are traded as cheaply as GM stock. Shouldn’t we be demanding personal investment, accountability, and reciprocity from the select individuals we call friends? I idolize a society steeping and swelling with spit-in-your-eye laughter, passionate kissing, and firm handshakes. Perhaps Facebook can work in our favor as long as we actively own our relationships and recite the golden rule of quality over quantity. New technology can latch on as innocently as our morning addiction to caffeine, but the consequences can be staggering if we displace the human element of socialization. I am not advocating for its demise, but I caution its utility.
Of course, Facebook might be an excellent tool for locating one’s freshman roommate or discovering fellow alums who live in the Bay Area. But, while we are gathering and hoarding like toddlers at an Easter egg hunt, perhaps we should take pause to ensure we aren’t just using each other to one-up our friend meters. After all, we may be tallying up the comrades, but if they are a bunch of limp handshakes, what’s the point? Besides, I’m certain all 79 of them don’t know - I prefer my cupcakes to contain actual calories.
I must confess, I do relish in being pursued. Since I joined Facebook last week, the names have flash-danced across my yahoo inbox: some familiar, some unknown, some unleashing insecurities last endured in the sixth grade locker room. Still, the majority of notifications elicit the smug gratification of a well-timed high five. It feels good to be liked. It is good to have friends. And even better, to flaunt them out in the open.
What is this Facebook phenomenon? Is it simply the latest in e-trends, propelling the streaming shift from letters to phone calls, from email to texts, from messaging to “friending”? Is it coincidence that this new generation of communication is even less communicative than the one prior? Could Facebook just be another way to indulge our friendship sloth?
Composing letters demand time. They are drafted with measured penmanship on crisp stationary and sealed with actual human saliva. You search in vain for the correct address, sized envelope, and currently valid stamp. You tromp three blocks in the snow to a squatty blue-boxed oasis with a squeaky metal shoot and then, trust it all to the US Postal Service. You wait. You have invested the time and energy and now you endure the quaintly old-fashioned delay of receipt. But, then it is received, and for a moment, you cause someone to feel as idolized as a first born grandchild.
Chatting over the telephone allows for more spontaneity and instantaneous banter, but still, consumes the clock. Phone talk demands a chunk of our day to truly catch someone up on our life, especially those out-of-the-loop, long distance friends we feel obligated to ring on major holidays. Personally, I tend to delay those calls, knowing thirty minutes will never suffice – only to determine a week later than the required minimum time has swelled to a deterrent forty-five. If you’re like me, we spot certain names on caller IDs and usher them straight to voicemail, especially if they’re brazen enough to call halfway through Grey’s Anatomy.
Alternatively, emails are succinct, colloquial and uninhibited. We don’t have to spell correctly, remember “i” before “e”, or edit for parallel structure. They are as unobtrusive as midnight custodians, doing their job, but not expectant of gratitude or fanfare. Unfortunately, they can also reek of self-indulgence. Emails are dispensed as blithely as they are dismissed. We are all guilty of dropping the dutiful, “What’s new?” without having to commit to an actual conversation. We check the person off our “to-do” list and strategically, it becomes their “turn” – their prerogative to respond when they have time. After all, we have to get to the gym, pick up the dry cleaning, refuel the sedan, and order pepperoni pizza. We are busy. They are busy. No one has to sacrifice.
T2UL Talk to you later. Anyone over twenty-five, may find it increasingly vital to enroll in a class on the language of text. In this adolescent universe, complete sentences are discouraged and the least number of letters to convey a point is studied, revered and emulated like primate tool use in chimpanzee populations. Brevity reigns and eloquence is discouraged. Texts can be typed and transmitted in a span of seconds – in the cab, under the dinner table, or in a movie theater, simply to irritate the patrons behind you. Dude, this flick blows – LOL.
And now, with even less effort you can connect to your peers with an instant search and swift click of the mouse. To “friend” someone has been conjugated into an active verb without any action or verbalization. This behavior is catapulting forth a generation of students who connect primarily online. Any alternative fraternizing rarely occurs sober. The solidarity of a handshake, an intimate phone call, or shared experience is not vital to the modern concept of friend. All you need is a name, modem, and sleek Mac Air.
As of this morning, I had 79 friends. I don’t think that is considered impressive, although I am doing better than the suburban moms who signed up to post photos of their kids and months later can’t remember their log-in codes. Still, it is not college sophomore caliber either. I do presume my list is more qualified. In fact, I ventured into this process, curious to discover whom I might unearth, but also weary of polluting my posse with former high school classmates I never respected, let alone extended a solitary thought to in twelve years. But, these random friend requests nudge their way into my utopia and threaten its very purity. Like sex without a condom, these outliers are hard to resist. This guy would put me over #80 and after all, I don’t want to damage an ego. In this spirit, posting on Facebook seems to mimic the rituals of thumping on chests or flaunting of feathers. Maybe it is more muted and certainly less barbaric than thrashing vines in the jungle, but it is a popularity contest. Plain and simple.
Web-based communication seems to have evolved into a sly craft. Suddenly, we can bypass having to nurture real and tangible relationships that involve coffee steam, nonverbal cues, and, if you’re lucky, a parting embrace. With the adoption of Facebook, we can “tickle”, “poke”, or send a clip-art carrot cake cupcake, but we are not touching anyone or turning on an oven. We reach out through wires, cables, and technology, but not with our hands or voices. Sallie Smith may post that she has a headache and Joe Johnson may have devoured an entire bag of Peanut M&M’s, but we are not invested. The communication is passive and suddenly the intimacies of friendship are reduced to a bulletin board of futile online post-it-notes.
Let’s consider how many of these freshly found pals we will actually develop any form of bond with over time? Perhaps when bored at work, we’ll spy on the attractiveness of an ex-boyfriend’s spouse or scoff at an old classmate’s smutty pictures from a bachelorette party. Maybe these tolerated voyeuristic opportunities will lead to envy, lust, or even appreciation. Or maybe it is all benign. Alternatively, we all could be threading a sharp needle.
Personally, I am terrified of inhabiting a world infected with indifference where friends are traded as cheaply as GM stock. Shouldn’t we be demanding personal investment, accountability, and reciprocity from the select individuals we call friends? I idolize a society steeping and swelling with spit-in-your-eye laughter, passionate kissing, and firm handshakes. Perhaps Facebook can work in our favor as long as we actively own our relationships and recite the golden rule of quality over quantity. New technology can latch on as innocently as our morning addiction to caffeine, but the consequences can be staggering if we displace the human element of socialization. I am not advocating for its demise, but I caution its utility.
Of course, Facebook might be an excellent tool for locating one’s freshman roommate or discovering fellow alums who live in the Bay Area. But, while we are gathering and hoarding like toddlers at an Easter egg hunt, perhaps we should take pause to ensure we aren’t just using each other to one-up our friend meters. After all, we may be tallying up the comrades, but if they are a bunch of limp handshakes, what’s the point? Besides, I’m certain all 79 of them don’t know - I prefer my cupcakes to contain actual calories.
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