The fake Facebook me: an open letter to my FB friends

Hmm.                         Awkward.                         You see… I have a confession to make. I haven’t been entirely honest. My profile is a set up. I’ve crafted, sculpted and de-tagged it to death in an attempt to appear as smooth as possible – the ‘best’ version of myself. Who I want you to think I am.

I haven’t lied to you. Nothing on my profile is untrue. It’s what I’ve left out that has resulted in a less than complete picture of myself.

However, I’ve decided to cut the crap. That’s right, I am now on a mission to officially become A Bull-Free Zone.

Here’s what I would add to my profile info if I were being completely honest:

Movies

I like to give off the impression that I only ever watch super arty films with subtitles so tiny you have to endure the entire movie understanding almost none of the dialogue, but connecting on a higher level with what the director is trying to “say” through the subtly placed set props.

However, around 80% of the time, it’s actually quite unlikely that I’m watching a French language film with Arabic subtitles about post modernism in a post-colonial world. I’m actually watching Cheaper by the Dozen 2. And enjoying it.

Photos

Until recently I blocked all friends from seeing each and every photo I’m tagged in and limited access to profile pics and backpacking photos only. I have now seen the light and have officially Got Over Myself (it really is official – you get a certificate and everything.) If we’re FB friends, please do take a look. There’s a particularly fetching one of me lying in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Music

I would love you to believe that the first record I ever purchased was something uber cool like Blue by Joni Mitchell. But it wasn’t. It was Let’s Get Ready to Rumble by PJ and Duncan. I used to, and still do, have a big thing for comedy rapping. In fact, two weeks ago I subjected a car full of people to a rendition of ‘Gangsta’s Paradise’ word for word. I’m still not sure if they were amused or just thought I needed help.

Activities

I do enjoy politics, music and reading, but if I were being entirely honest I would also add the following to my list:

• Walking into lampposts
• Skipping down the road when I think no one is looking whilst giggling to myself like a crazy person.
• Aimlessly browsing the internet for hours when I should be doing something waaaay more useful. Like sleeping. Or reading Tolstoy. Or watching an Arabic-subtitled French film with a post-modern interpretation of the post-G8 consumerist culture in middle Britain.

Nope, I’m not entirely sure what that sentence means either.

Crumpled heap: Officially the best photo of me on Facebook

Speechless

Silence.  Nothing.  Nada.

I’m speechless.  And unfortunately not in a cute ‘Wow, I’m so surprised’ kind of way.  Nope.  I open my mouth and out croaks a sound which has the ability to terrify animals and make small children cry.  I’m losing my voice.  Again.

It’s amazing what happens when something you’ve so heavily relied upon, yet never really appreciated, is gone.  You begin to realise how essential this previously underrated implement is to your daily living.

Or is it?

I am amazed at how the experience of loss often leads to unexpected creativity.  I was 19 when I first lost my voice.  Over a period of 12 months I would regularly be unable to speak for up to a week and was unable to sing for the entire duration of that time.  Over that year the way I expressed myself musically dramatically altered. I evolved from an awkward sheet-reading pianist to someone who would sit at a piano for hours, just making stuff up.

As human beings we have an incredible ability to adapt in order to cope with the unexpected.  I recently read that the visual cortex takes on the role of language in the brains of people who are blind from birth.  Incredible.

The last time I lost my voice was Christmas 2009.  Upset by the possibility of being unable to communicate over the festive period, I decided to employ the means of interpretive dance.   My family got into the spirit of things (we’re crazy, remember?) and everything was going well until we managed to set fire to the table wreath during our candle-lit Christmas dinner.  Go team.

So here’s my predicament.  There are thirty people coming round for lunch in less than an hour.  Interpretive dance is out of the question as I’ve already had one house burn to the ground (again, um… not my fault) and I don’t really fancy losing all of my material possessions today.

Maybe I should just punch them in the face before breaking out my zombie moves.  At least that would get me out of having to dance like a demented hamster.

Every stain tells a story

Last Summer I did something that really scared me.  I packed a bag and headed off to hang out in a monastery.  No internet.  No mobile phone.  No TV.  Three days of walking, thinking, and reading.  Aside from God, I didn’t converse much with anyone apart from one chat with Father Vincent, a chilled out monk who gave me a few tips on how to be… silent.

I’ve never been great with silence.  The very thought of being still terrified me for years.  I was the girl who watched TV whilst checking twitter whilst downloading the latest Radiohead album.  Distraction was my addiction.

However, my time in stillness had quite an odd effect.  After three days of being cut off from the outside world several things became apparent.  One of the most notable was that I no longer felt the need to wear make up.  In fact, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt happier with my appearance.

I believe there were probably several factors that contributed to this, although I can’t deny that the absence of a constant stream of multi media must have been instrumental to this change.

As a woman, I’m constantly bombarded with the pressure to be ‘perfect’.  Anything less is just not good enough.  Adverts, touched-up magazine covers and glamorised TV dramas all play their part. The average person living in the Western world is exposed to hundreds, and according to some reports – thousands, of commercial messages every day. They say ‘Hey there! You’re inadequate as you are, but if you buy this mascara you’ll be acceptable again.’  Lucky you.  Consumerism steals our dignity and then sells it back to us[1].

Apparently we all need whitened teeth, abnormally long eyelashes, hardcore abs and minimal body hair.  And by the way, we need to spend our hard earned cash on perfect lives too – the car, the holiday, the latest brand of toothpaste.  Last year’s model is no longer powerful enough to banish the unwanted disease of imperfection.

However, I’m not sure that perfection is necessarily where beauty lives.  This doesn’t just apply to physical appearance, but all aspects of life.  Sometimes it is within the broken, messed up things in this world that we find that which is most captivating.  We just need to learn how to see without the constraints of a restrictive culture.

So here’s my confession.  I am not perfect.  I don’t think I’ve ever painted my nails without smudging the edges.  I fall on my ass roughly twice a month.  It’s not elegant.  I have noticeable stains on my front teeth and my elbows bend in the wrong direction (no kidding).  After some consideration, I’ve decided to hang on to these special features.

Perfection is… well, it’s rather boring really, isn’t it?  Should we all just conform to an acceptable ‘type’?  I’m not sure I want to be like everybody else.  The stains are staying put.

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[1] I wish to God that I came up with this line myself, but I stole it from a dude with ginger dreadlocks.