CREEK ROAD GANG
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Facebook Reunion
by Terry Heyman
When I graduated from high school twenty-five years ago, I left for college and never returned to my hometown. I preferred the anonymity of my adult life in a new state where there was no chance I could run into a man reminding me that he and his ninth grade buddies used to call me “giraffe” (I was tall for my age).
However, I recently joined Facebook (at my sister’s urging), and found myself looking up old classmates. I began snooping around and before long I was studying profile pictures with all the intensity of a forensic scientist. I became an obsessed detective searching for clues hidden within a single photo. Some women posted professional pictures that looked like they came from corporate reports or law firm brochures — serious career woman. Other profile pics were blurry messes taken with husbands and kids on family vacations — happily married. If the photo showed an exotic European locale in the background then you have to add — happily married and doing well enough financially to enjoy expensive vacations with the entire family, thank you very much. There were photos of folks engaged in athletic endeavors like skiing or scuba diving — healthy and fit. Occasionally, childhood photos were used — still a kid at heart. And some pictures weren’t photos at all but clever cartoons or illustrations — I’m a creative type who has evolved past such bourgeois concerns such as vanity.
For my own picture, I chose a photo of myself wearing a carefree smile as if to say I am perfectly at ease with myself and my place in the world. Who was I kidding? I’m the type that will spend an hour on my hair and makeup to look like I just rolled out of bed wearing “no-makeup.” I liked to think of these profile pictures as advertisements of our best selves.
After being on Facebook for a month, I got in touch with a friend from high school whom I haven’t seen since 1984. And from him, another, then another, then another; all these folks wanted to be my “friend.” They posted: “hey, I remember you,” “didn’t we go on a date once?” “she was always nice,” “you look like just like you did in high school.” Amazing. It was like going to your high school reunion without ever having to leave the safety of your laptop.
While perusing, I came across a particular photo through a “friend” of mine who had 800 “friends” of her own. The photo was of an attractive woman whom I remembered as one of the more popular girls in high school. We had a passing acquaintance since we rode the same school bus. It was the kind of relationship where we’d sometimes nod at each other as we passed in the hallways and sometimes not, depending on whom else we were walking with at the time. If she and I were alone together sitting out gym class, she might start up a conversation with me (I would never presume to start talking to her). I guess in her mind, if there was no one else to talk to, talking to me was better than nothing.
In her profile photo, she looked tall and blond (as always) standing with an equally tall, blond, attractive man and two adorable blond girls. Together they looked like Swiss Family Blond & Willowy. I took a chance and this time I initiated the conversation. I asked her to be my “friend.” I spent longer than necessary crafting an email, trying to capture the perfect tone of casual interest. It went something like this: “Hey, I saw your photo. You and your family look beautiful. I always thought you were the coolest dancer in school.” I debated that last sentence for a moment and then sent my email. More nervous than any forty-two year old woman has a right to be over something like this, I ran downstairs and told my husband what I just did. He said my email was fine up until that last part about being the “coolest dancer” because then I was overselling. Bummed, I thought he was right, but it was too late. My message was already sitting in her inbox waiting to be opened. As a reasonably well-adjusted adult, I knew this was all meaningless in the scheme of my current life and admittedly even had a whiff of desperation about it. What can I say? I guess there was still a part of me hoping to be invited to eat lunch at the cool table, even if that table was now floating in cyber space and filled with people I didn't know anymore.
The next morning after getting my kids off to school, I went to check my computer. I was in! There was a warm email back from her asking what I had been up to all these years. Suddenly, my high school angst felt as obsolete as a dot matrix printer. I sent off a quick reply, saying that I would write again later when I had more time; then I left Facebook to start my workday.
However, I recently joined Facebook (at my sister’s urging), and found myself looking up old classmates. I began snooping around and before long I was studying profile pictures with all the intensity of a forensic scientist. I became an obsessed detective searching for clues hidden within a single photo. Some women posted professional pictures that looked like they came from corporate reports or law firm brochures — serious career woman. Other profile pics were blurry messes taken with husbands and kids on family vacations — happily married. If the photo showed an exotic European locale in the background then you have to add — happily married and doing well enough financially to enjoy expensive vacations with the entire family, thank you very much. There were photos of folks engaged in athletic endeavors like skiing or scuba diving — healthy and fit. Occasionally, childhood photos were used — still a kid at heart. And some pictures weren’t photos at all but clever cartoons or illustrations — I’m a creative type who has evolved past such bourgeois concerns such as vanity.
For my own picture, I chose a photo of myself wearing a carefree smile as if to say I am perfectly at ease with myself and my place in the world. Who was I kidding? I’m the type that will spend an hour on my hair and makeup to look like I just rolled out of bed wearing “no-makeup.” I liked to think of these profile pictures as advertisements of our best selves.
After being on Facebook for a month, I got in touch with a friend from high school whom I haven’t seen since 1984. And from him, another, then another, then another; all these folks wanted to be my “friend.” They posted: “hey, I remember you,” “didn’t we go on a date once?” “she was always nice,” “you look like just like you did in high school.” Amazing. It was like going to your high school reunion without ever having to leave the safety of your laptop.
While perusing, I came across a particular photo through a “friend” of mine who had 800 “friends” of her own. The photo was of an attractive woman whom I remembered as one of the more popular girls in high school. We had a passing acquaintance since we rode the same school bus. It was the kind of relationship where we’d sometimes nod at each other as we passed in the hallways and sometimes not, depending on whom else we were walking with at the time. If she and I were alone together sitting out gym class, she might start up a conversation with me (I would never presume to start talking to her). I guess in her mind, if there was no one else to talk to, talking to me was better than nothing.
In her profile photo, she looked tall and blond (as always) standing with an equally tall, blond, attractive man and two adorable blond girls. Together they looked like Swiss Family Blond & Willowy. I took a chance and this time I initiated the conversation. I asked her to be my “friend.” I spent longer than necessary crafting an email, trying to capture the perfect tone of casual interest. It went something like this: “Hey, I saw your photo. You and your family look beautiful. I always thought you were the coolest dancer in school.” I debated that last sentence for a moment and then sent my email. More nervous than any forty-two year old woman has a right to be over something like this, I ran downstairs and told my husband what I just did. He said my email was fine up until that last part about being the “coolest dancer” because then I was overselling. Bummed, I thought he was right, but it was too late. My message was already sitting in her inbox waiting to be opened. As a reasonably well-adjusted adult, I knew this was all meaningless in the scheme of my current life and admittedly even had a whiff of desperation about it. What can I say? I guess there was still a part of me hoping to be invited to eat lunch at the cool table, even if that table was now floating in cyber space and filled with people I didn't know anymore.
The next morning after getting my kids off to school, I went to check my computer. I was in! There was a warm email back from her asking what I had been up to all these years. Suddenly, my high school angst felt as obsolete as a dot matrix printer. I sent off a quick reply, saying that I would write again later when I had more time; then I left Facebook to start my workday.
copyright Terry Heyman
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Biography: Terry Heyman writes fashion and style articles for examiner.com. She is also the owner of T. Heyman Tees, a line of screen printed tees inspired by a love of nature and a Zen sensibility. Terry lives in West Chester, PA and enjoys practicing yoga, hosting theme parties, and playing dress-up with her two young children. She is currently at work on her first book. See Terry's story The Bear from the September issue.
