I’m sure you’ve liked them too. Those posts from your friends who are at the gym at 4:30 on a Tuesday morning, documenting their dedication at an hour no human should be awake, much less coherent. Good for you, brother, but I am not that motivated. Or the weight loss posts from your friends who have been following the latest diet trend and encouraging you to try it too. You’re awesome, woman, but there is no way I’m giving up wine and dark chocolate. I am the first in line to laud the success of my friends. Truly, I’m happy they are on their way to taking better care of themselves and they inspire me to do the same. But every time I click the thumbs up, I think about how ironic it is that we, as a collective society, never document the events that got us to the gym or on the diet in the first place. Why don’t we post photos of our stressed-out selves on the couch at 10pm eating a bag of chips or a pan of brownies (my personal preference) or in the McDonalds drive thru getting a Big Mac, fries & a giant Coke for second breakfast? I think because we know those choices aren’t to be celebrated. And perhaps we regret making them too.
I stood in the middle of St. Mark’s Square surrounded by pigeons and cell phones. A sea of people hoping to capture the elusive perfect photo of themselves amidst some of the most beautiful architecture and artwork in the world. Self absorption was no where more apparent to me than that weekend in Venice last fall. Dozens and dozens of people flitting from place to place just to post themselves all over social media. Hashtag “me me me.” Never mind the thousands of years of history surrounding them that has stood and will stand long after they’re gone. As if they give it meaning by their fleeting presence.
I was buying a last-minute gift on Amazon, and the kingpin of last-minute gifts at that: a gift card, when I noticed the products at the bottom of the page that were recommended for me. A sterling silver, stamped, cuff bracelet that read “just f***ing do it”. I stared at my laptop with my brows raised and thought “Wow. Just wow.” How far we’ve come in our linguistic talents over the past 6500 years (yes, I’m a young Earther). How am I possibly going to get my 6 year old to stop saying “Crap. Crap. Crap.” when we’re all inundated with much worse language on a daily basis. And, yes, I am thankful that “crap” is the worst in his repertoire at this point. I can only imagine what will come the way of my eardrums as time moves on. Perhaps surgery wasn’t such a great idea after all.