Ever since I quit Facebook a couple of weeks ago, people have been asking “What’s up?”
It’s as if there’s a deep, dark, hidden meaning behind my decision to abandon the popular social page. I’m sick. I’m fed up. I’m tired. My kidneys have gotten worse.
Well, relax. It’s none of the above. I can explain it in one word: Clutter.
I don’t like clutter. I don’t do clutter. I do my very best to make my life a clutter-free zone.
There is, for example, no clutter in my home. Yes, I have a junk drawer. Actually, I have two of them. But all the junk in my drawers is neatly arranged. If I need a sewing needle and thread, I know exactly where to find it. If I need a hammer and nail, I know I’ll find them right beside the sewing needle, the thread, the candles, the pot pourri, the Topps 1963 Sandy Koufax baseball card, the championship crest from the 1968-69 hockey season and the shoe shine kit.
Some might think an uncluttered junk drawer to be a bit anal. Ah, but it is nothing of the sort. While you forage through your junk drawer in the frantic hope of finding a rubber band or shoelace, I waste neither time nor patience. In short, you search whereas I retrieve.
So, what does this have to do with my abandoning Facebook? It had become social clutter. The junk drawer of my life.
Don’t get me wrong. I enjoyed many of the postings that would surface on my timeline. Much of it was rather humorous, some of it enlightening and thought-provoking. Alas, too much of it was so much blah, blah, blah from people and organizations I don’t even know.
I mean, on a whim I reconnected my Facebook page this morning and here’s a sampling of what I discovered on my timeline: Village Homes at Kettle Creek…so-in-so is now a friend with so-in-so…share this if you want good fortune, don’t share it and a pox on your house…I Love DIY…nostalgia…American Humanist Association…The San Francisco Globe…ads, ads and more ads.
Worse yet, someone out there in the great somewhere posted a notice inquiring if I wanted to see more ads.
Thus, I spent more time deleting posts than reading posts.
It has occurred to me that social media is, in fact, the most anti-social creation in history. Teenage girls and young women have become selfie-taking nincompoops whose seemingly sole source of accomplishment in life is to acquire the most likes. Twitter is the very breeding ground of animosity. People don’t actually write words anymore. They use little thingies called emoticons to express their thoughts. People don’t talk. They text.
I was in the Taphouse on Yates here in Victoria just prior to the noon hour one day earlier this week. Two men sat at the table nearest me. They were there for approximately one hour. They ordered drinks and lunch. They drank their drinks and ate their lunch. And all the while, both were engaged not in conversation but, rather, with their smart phones. If they exchanged more than two dozen words in those 60 minutes, none of it arrived at my ears.
At a table across the room, four men in suits met for lunch. One of them, who looked to be 20something, ignored the others during their entire stay. He ate with his right hand and texted with his left. Constantly.
I’m left to wonder if this is what normal home life has become for families. Nobody talks. They text and take selfies. You know, like the Kardashians.
Well, I don’t need a smart phone that talks. I need a dumb phone that I can talk on.
At any rate, I have cleared the clutter from my Facebook page. I have sorted out a method of preventing the blah, blah, blah from surfacing. I’m going to give it another shot. Fingers crossed.
If I disappear again, you’ll know why—too many strangers in my junk drawer.