Don’t tell your Facebook friends, but research shows social media posts are more fiction than fact.
Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
At one time, I had a diary. It was a cute little book with a pink cover and a lock. Pink, because I was a girl (although no spitball-shooting boy ever kept a diary), and the lock because I had younger siblings. Also a mom.
As a gawky teen with skinny legs, two part-time jobs and chief responsibility for the family turtle, the danger of my doing anything intriguing enough to record was minimal. Still, I was obligated to fill that little pink book with spicy adventures. So I lied.
I didn’t know it then, but I was preparing myself for the advent of social media by generating fake news. My devious teenage mind conjured up a social life teeming with adoring boys and unchaperoned parties with adult beverages and police raids, sneaking out at all hours—OK, I might have done that—and legions of the most popular kids in school sucking up to me. Not just because they wanted to cheat off my tests, either.
Flash forward a few decades to the brave new world of unlocked diaries where we’re all penning our autobiographies on Facebook and posting Smithsonian-worthy photos on Instagram. Humiliating family videos of Uncle Marty (post-eggnog) are finding new audiences on YouTube. Any convictions you’ve held deeply for longer than three seconds should be tweeted immediately. There are no more pink covers or locks, so everybody’s lies are running around loose.
The other day my friend Jean was moaning to me over coffee about her “useless husband” (again) and listing her various grievances (again). Since I have not held a man in captivity lately, I don’t get to gripe. She says relationship issues with my dogs don’t merit equal time.
Later that day, her anniversary post appeared on Facebook. “My Darling Doug, I am so thankful for every moment we embrace. You are my love, my soulmate, the very oxygen that sustains me.” Yuck.
Who is she talking about? Could Jean be describing the “stingy sloth” who remains catatonic during football season, stuffs dirty socks back in the drawer and snores louder than a jet engine? To her besties, Doug’s a lemon, but to the anonymous masses, he’s a peach.
Experts say that social media spawns “inauthenticity,” which is a fancy term for telling big fat lies. We feel pressure to edit our lives so total strangers will approve. There’s even a name for it: FAD, or Facebook Addiction Disorder. I may be one of some 350 million people suffering from it.
Of the 23 close friends I wished happy birthday last week, I only recognized two of them. My brain—the same brain that struggles to remember where I left the bifocals that are sitting on top of my head—simply isn’t wired to remember 487 birthdays and who made meatloaf for dinner.
Facebook can also spread hoaxes faster than bronchitis during flu season. Take poor Fabrizio Brambilla, for example. Dozens of concerned friends have warned me to ignore his friend request because he’s out to hack my account. Really? I suspect Fabrizio is layering lasagna somewhere in Italy, but he’s not phishing for personal info as dull as mine, especially since I quit inventing it. It’s always easier to click share than to check Snopes.com to see what’s true.
You can protect yourself from scams by sending your savings to me and forwarding this to 120 Facebook friends, or risk breaking out in a contagious rash. Trust me and do it now. Don’t make me call Fabrizio. (And forget that Snopes.com thing. I was just kidding.)
Jan A. Igoe is taking a break from social media and her imaginary friends. It’s exhausting out there. Please report any Fabrizio sightings to HumorMe@SCLiving.coop. Lasagna recipes are welcome, too.