Feedback on Facebook … and Other Deep Wounds

A reflection on invisibility.

I opened my Facebook feed, all but quivering with anticipation.

Maybe this post will get some reaction, I thought. Maybe it’ll create some buzz … finally.

I stared at my laptop, feeling my face grow red with frustration … or was it shame?

No cute “heart” or “thumbs-up” emojis had popped up. Not a single comment, share or private message.

As I glanced around my room – tired eyes darting from overwatered spider plant to laser printer to lime-green lava lamp – I half expected to hear that cliched ripping sound of a needle being yanked across a vinyl record. That’s because every single one of my Facebook posts had been ignored.

This time, however, my frustration was mixed with confusion, since this last post was unlike any I’d ever shared … by a long shot.

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I first opened a Facebook account in the spring of 2010, right around the time the Zuckerberg Coding Legion had back-handed digital upstarts Friendster and MySpace off the social media radar. Like millions of other new FB users, I wanted to reconnect with old friends and family, send out high-octane congrats for key milestones (Happy anniversary! Happy birthday! Glad your restraining order was dropped!) and share ideas, pics and fun updates with a built-in audience.

But I got something I didn’t expect: the reopening of a painful 30-year-old wound.

Since most folks know me as a deep-thinking existential philosopher slap-happy joker, my posts naturally leaned toward the quirky and snarky, odd observations about the news or life in general, such as:

• For sale: skydiving parachute. Used only once … never opened.
• Quack alert? My ophthalmologist recommended cayenne pepper eyedrops.
• This just in! Depressed Moron Jumps From First-Floor Window

The result? Zero feedback.

So, in lieu of another goofy one-liner, my latest post was a whole new animal:

• Something to ponder: “Life begins at the end of your comfort zone.” Can any of you relate to this?

By then, I’d received one “Like,” a little heart icon from someone named Brittany. Hmm, I thought. Do I know anyone named Brittany?

As if on cue, Brittany followed up with an actual comment:

• Hi Larry. You sound nice. I’d like to get to know you better.

• Thank you. I appreciate your feedback. Have you ever felt trapped by your own comfort zone?

• I have! she replied. By the way, are you single?

That’s when I realized that “Brittany” was probably a bathing-averse shut-in named Biff living in Mommy’s and Daddy’s De Moine, Iowa, basement. And “Brittany” was trying to rip me off.

• As a matter of fact, I am single, I typed. I imagine you’re single, too, right?

• Yes I am!! the person calling himself Brittany replied. Let’s get to know each other!

• I’d love to, Brittany!! But first, let me ask you this: What is your bank’s routing number, bank account number, Social Security number and mother’s maiden name?

And, like magic, “Brittany” was gone forever.

I then recalled an item in my Facebook feed from the previous day, an update from someone we’ll call Cynthia:

• I just switched from strawberry jelly to orange marmalade. WOW!! What a difference!!

Here’s what really wound my watch: Cynthia’s post received an array of fun emojis, as well as several dozen comments, such as:

• I love orange marmalade!
• YOU ROCK, CYNTHIA.
• Ohmigosh. I gotta try that.
• Small world! I just switched from English muffins to toast!

Cynthia was a high school classmate, a cheerleader who – cheesy cliché alert! – actually did date Burbank High School’s starting quarterback. (Why cheerleaders never dated third-string left tackles remains a mystery.)

In other words, Cynthia had always been popular. And I‘d always been invisible.

Just like high school.

High school students have always naturally formed into cliques: the Jocks, Brains, Drama Kids, Class Clowns, Band Members, Stoners, Geeks, Student Government Control Freaks, and so forth.

I never fell into any category … unless Loner is a category.

It didn’t help that my brother, one year ahead of me and a starter on the Burbank High basketball team, was fairly popular. So much so that, during my time at BHS, my de facto name was “Jeff’s brother.” He got all the attention.

Posting on Facebook years later reminded me that, during my high school years, I’d been invisible.

Thanks to Facebook, by 2010 I apparently remained invisible.

“Larry who?” I imagined old Burbank High acquaintances on FB were thinking. “Didn’t he play basketball? Oh … that was his brother. I wonder what Jeff’s up to? Let’s look him up.”

Soon after my virtual speed date with “Brittany,” I quit Facebook … but not before coming this close to giving my online profile a desperate facelift.

I’d become Johnny Blowdry, a stunningly successful (but humble) dental-floss mogul who’d retired to Honolulu to work as a Ferrari-driving private investigator. Using Cynthia’s popularity as a strategic template, my aim would’ve been to parlay my growing fame into a sweet deal as a Smucker’s ambassador.

The Authentic Facade™ would be capped off with the original photo, below.

What could go wrong?

Credit: Johnny Blowdry Archive

Kudos to Matt Cyr, Alden Cox, Rick Lewis, Brigitte Kratz, Neha Patel, Dana Allen and Linda Kaun, all friends and compatriots in our Write Hearted community, for their helpful feedback.