Sin Zapato

A 40-day invitation

Beloved,

I am circling an idea as daunting as my breakup with Marlboro Lights over three decades ago: a 40-day reprieve from Facebook.

Why?

Reasons abound, really. The time-suck, the algorithm stalkishness, the endless onslaught, the heartache, my fragile sense of emotional well-being.

Also, although I only walk along the edges of my Catholic upbringing, astrology, and Eastern culture, I believe that there might be something magical in the air with Lent, a solar eclipse, and a new Lunar Year happening within 48 hours of each other.

Why not start a new pattern, right? Why not just go cold turkey for good, like I did after that last pack of smokes?

Well, reasons abound here too.

I have the friends who feel that social media is an unmitigated shitshow. “There’s nothing there for you,” they tell me, full of worry for me and my hours in the rabbit hole, eager to share well-intended advice on the matter. They are not wrong. But also, their lives and their needs are vastly different from mine. They have full social lives, family lives, in-person work lives, all of which meet certain needs.

So what’s a sister to do, exactly?

A sister is to think about it.

And I have thought about it a lot. What makes it so hard for me? What’s my own deal with the dam thing?

The answer? It’s complicated.

On the one hand, I live in gratitude for Facebook. I’ve reconnected with old friends I once thought lost forever, read poetry I’d never read before, seen art I’d never seen before, even met some new, creative, caring humans who have made an enormous difference in my life. It’s the place where I get to see loved ones in other states, on other coasts, in other countries, share photos of their grandkids, their last vacation, their last amazing gig.

ALSO.

I have a need. For Blessed Banter. And I have decided I’m not going to sit in judgement of that need.

You see, I work from home and I am the sole caregiver for my elderly mom. What that means is that the bulk of my daily existence is indoors and on screen, disconnected from others who share a daily reality. I am at peace with the freedom from drama, diversion, and long commutes that my work-from-home existence offers. I am comfortable alone. But also, I am not a loner.

In fact, I was a social beast once. Happy in my silent time, yes, but also the proud, self-proclaimed Office Bartender. The one that sat at the front cubicle for most of my work life, that everyone stopped at to share a laugh, a story, a worry, or just a secret signal, like Redford and Newman’s nose swipe in The Sting.

To be honest, I miss exactly NOTHING about my Cubicle Farm work. Very few professional accomplishments stand out in my memory. But Lord, I loved those visits and flybys. And I love part of myself that invited them.

As I write this, I recognize that that’s the part of me that hops onto social media. And I also recognize that things are…not good. That it’s too much. That it’s making me slightly crazy and possibly more withdrawn, more disconnected.

Or maybe…too connected to too much.

I am conflicted, and not in a small way. It feels counterintuitive to stop engaging on the platform with the built-in banter button and my curated list of friends. Still, I’m going to drop off for a while. Not for deprivation’s sake. But for something else. A bit of space, maybe, while I search other ways to scratch this divinely appointed itch, the one that compels me to write and hear back, to communicate shared experiences, all minus the time-suck, the algorithm, the onslaught, the heartache.

I don’t know what will come of it. But it’s worth a shot.

If anyone reading this cares to join me in the Grand FB Pause, I extend an invitation.

I begin on Wednesday, February 18th. 40 days and 40 nights.

I’ll be posting here and on my Substack, The Daphne Project, scratching the itch to write, share, and make sense of my quiet life. And who knows, maybe I’ll come up with a cool name for a social media quitters club.

A club. Of pausers. The thought of that already gives my heart a lift.

Happy Fire Horse Year, kids. May all your wildest joys gallop their way into your lives.

Group hug,

Susu