Face Time

Some time ago I opened a Facebook account, thinking it might be a useful resource for stalking. When that proved disappointing, I pretty much forgot about it. Periodically I’d get a message that someone wanted to “friend” me, but it was invariably a person I barely knew, if at all – a friend of a friend. How desperate they must be to pad their friend count, I thought; they obviously mine mailing lists. Finding the whole thing slightly unnerving, I ignored the requests with only faint pangs of guilt.

There were no second thoughts until a couple of months ago, when I got a request from a cousin, followed closely by one from a friend. A real friend. Up to that point, I’d assumed that Facebook and its equivalents were the province of teenagers, not middle-agers, but now I was forced to reconsider. Not only were these two in my age group, neither was socially challenged, and I respected their judgment. So I clicked “confirm” twice, sighed, and dipped a tentative toe into the stream.

I filled out my profile, posted a couple of pictures, and started trolling for friends. Not “friends,” mind you, but friends. I’m 41 years old. I have plenty of friends; I don’t need “friends.”

That lasted a couple of weeks.

Around the same time I began to tap out of real friends with Facebook accounts (many remain holdouts), I discovered that quite a few celebrities have pages. Hosanna! Would they respond to my overtures? Well, I reasoned, I’d already kicked myself back to high school; the experience wouldn’t be complete without social anxiety and the fear of rejection.

But they didn’t reject me. Tina Fey? We’re girlfriends now. Enrique Murciano? Mi amigo. Eros Ramazzotti? Paesano! (Evidently I’m still a band geek the second time around, but now I’m also a theater fag.)

The only one who’s snubbed me so far is Andy Roddick, and I was over him anyway. Are you reading this, Andy? I bet Djokovic will be my friend. Then you’ll be sorry, you dumb jock.