As I adjust to the ever-evolving world of digital
relationships, I’ve decided to stick to one simple rule: do not allow someone
you love on your Facebook page. (Friends and family are exempt.)
Actually, this rule also applies to anyone you might date, could possibly share bodily
fluids with, or might one day anger, upset, or incite and especially to those you might dump or be dumped by.
I’m embarrassed to admit that in a recent breakup I felt compelled to warn her of her impending deletion from my Facebook profile. Certainly, this was tops on the list of emotional necessities. The phone calls were ceasing. The text messages no longer jingled. The carrier pigeons had been laid off. But Facebook — that omniscient digital diversion — still taunted me with its voyeuristic prowess.
At any given point, I could check in on the ex’s moods, stew over flirtatious banter on her wall, gently caress her pixilated images. (I’m not doing any of this, by the way. Just saying that one could.) You can watch a life go by without you if you take that masochistic route. So why give yourself the option? Trust me: that innocuous gesture of Facebook “friendship” at the start of a new relationship will only come back to byte you in the ass.
So now, with any new prospects, I just pretend to be above Facebook’s shallow playground. “I don’t want to reduce us to that form of digital stimulation,” I’ll say. It sounds more sophisticated than,
“I fear my own digital stalking capabilities.” And then I just hit “ignore,”
and their requests vanish like Ambien on my nightstand. Besides, do I really
want to give potential paramours access to several pictures in which I’m
clutching Budweiser cans or sporting a teal bridesmaid dress?
When I fretted to my therapist over the temptation to text or Facebook an ex (pathetic, I know), she reminisced about the days when Alcoholics Anonymous used to simply urge “restraint of tongue and pen.” Now, it’s restraint of tongue, text, tweets, you name it.
But hitting that “remove” button on the ex felt like pulling a trigger. “This cannot be undone,” comes the ominous warning. I couldn’t do it. That dastardly Facebook remained my only semblance of a high-speed connection to her.
I had to hire a digital hit woman. “Give me your email and password,” she demanded. Reluctantly and after much backpedaling, I did. “Be gentle,” I insisted. And within seconds, the job was done.
Now that I’ve had to quit my digital temptation cold turkey, there’s always that lower-tech temptation, a little thing that runs on batteries and that has been gathering dust. Hey there, old friend.
