Time & Punishment: The Dreaded Commute

No...but really...THIS IS MY LIFE

Almost one year later of participating in the 9-to-5 grind, and I can't say that I've become accustomed to my commute or work-week schedule. When I first started coming to work, I was assured that the mind-numbing hours spent in traffic would eventually become so ingrained into my everyday life that the overwhelming irritability and anxiety I was (and still am) experiencing, trapped inside my car twice a day to-and-fro, would become a distant memory. Well, just shy of hitting my one-year-mark of Boston traffic, I beg to differ. If anything, the anxiety continues to mount as my car inches along the highway -- a discouraging 50MPH under the speed limit -- cursing myself for listening to those previous naysayers. Trapped in my Hyundai, staring at fellow commuters through their windows, hoping not to see anyone pick their nose, I hope that my right foot doesn't give out on me. Even worse, I try not to let my mind wander, while sitting in this temporary highway parking lot, for fear that I will put my car in park and see if I can run home faster than my car can drive there.

Inevitably, when you're stuck in a little steel casing for over three hours a day for your commute, you tend to wonder what you're doing, well, with those three hours a day that you will never get back. I am left having a "Sisyphus" moment, wondering about the futility of it all -- driving back and forth to work, only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again without any sense of purpose or mission. Ah yes, typical Angela, veering towards over-dramatic and revealing all of her neuroses -- but when you're spending all of this travel time to drive towards an entry-level job with an entry-level salary with entry-level work... Well, not to sound ungrateful for having a job (I am lucky to have a good job), but you might become a bit frustrated. 

I have to make tentative time commitments after work -- frequently falling victim to the spontaneous and unexplainable two or two-and-a-half-hour commutes home, causing me to cancel appointments scheduled after-hours. I've missed dinner reservations, been forced to make friends wait over a half an hour for me, and ultimately, arrived home giving me only 12 hours before I needed to get back into the car to drive back towards work. Sure, the 9-to-5 is filling up my wallet, but it certainly has emptied out my bank account of time. A stressful drive means I arrive to my destination aggravated, stressed, irritated and ultimately, fuming. My free time -- my life -- is pushed to the wayside all so that I can arrive at a cubicle, answer phone calls and click my mouse around a few times a day. While I appreciate my job and the opportunity it is giving me, I feel as though I fight to figure out what this is all really for and if it is worth this much anxiety.

Again, I don't mean to sound like a whiny brat (although, I'm sure I do right now) -- but I think this draws upon a bigger issue for post-grads accepting these entry level jobs. We essentially end up putting up with less than desirable conditions (low salaries, long hours, bad commutes) because we simply want to have jobs. We graduate with degrees that provide this illusion of security and success. Our degrees promise us that we will find something for which we are qualified and at which we will use all of our learned skills, drawing upon so much potential. And yet, we wind up doing data-entry for eight-hours a day. Is this okay? I don't know, really. After all, you need to start somewhere, and it isn't going to be at the top. You need to put in time and hard work before you can expect to be sitting pretty. That's the way things work. Certainly, I am still here putting up with my commute, but I can't say I am happy with sitting my car for upwards of 20 hours a week.

Clearly, having a job with a bad commute comes at the cost of my personal life (and, more importantly my sanity.) Like I said before, I can't always commit to something after work. Even when I do, I have to make sure it's late enough to insure that I am not inconveniencing other people. The longer I sit in traffic, the more irritable I become and the less likely it is that I even want to do anything -- just feeling defeated and useless. My commute ends up taking away the free time I need to insure that I arrive at work the next morning feeling refreshed and ready to be productive. Instead, I feel as though I wind up being resentful and exhausted -- definitely not the fore-bearers of efficiency and productivity. (You can even ask my mom...you do NOT want to talk to me while I am in traffic or after a long ride home...)

So what is the solution? Obviously, many people would suggest either moving closer to my job or find a new job closer to my current living situation. Is that possible though? With my budget being what it is (and my meager salary), an apartment closer to the city means having to forego food and furniture (are those things really that important anyway?). And finding a new job? Well, that is opening a whole other can of worms (dive through my blog's earliest posts of yesteryear). Then, there's always the option of working earlier hours; however, that doesn't actually solve anything -- it merely shifts my time in traffic and forces me to wake up earlier and go to bed later. I wish I could opt for telecommuting, but that seems to be an option allowed for employees with seniority rather than plebeians living life at the bottom of the food-chain.

And that leaves me... here...heading back to my car to fight traffic per usual. So tell me, how do you preserve your sanity while in traffic? What do you think is the best option for those of us who deal with lengthy and tiring commutes? Is there any option?

Or should I just stop ranting now?

This has been a public service announcement sponsored by my over-listened-to-playlists and tired right foot.

The Sands of Time

I gained some momentum the past few weeks with the blog posts -- I know, I know, you were impressed -- but clearly, I have slowed down. Blame my post- Valentine's Day haze. It was probably all of the chocolate I ate.

Get excited, though. I have a series (yes -- you heard me -- series) of posts coming up all having to do with the most elusive and mysterious of all things: TIME. Each installment will focus on an aspect of time management and having a busy schedule: the stuff of grown-ups. Fun stuff, right?

Be there or be square.

In Defense of Valentine's Day

from someecards

Single ladies, get your Netflix queued up with chick flicks and have the wine handy. Non-single ladies, be prepared for a sub-par romantic attempt on behalf of your significant other to acknowledge my favorite (and only) time of the year to binge on heart-shaped, chocolate-covered marshmallows. Rejoice – it’s everyone’s favorite holiday: Valentine’s Day!

PSYCHE! Of all of the year’s holidays, I’d be willing to bet that Valentine’s Day is the most hated – not because it kicks the single population while they’re down (assuming they’re even “down” – being single ain’t so bad, kids), but because it seems to exist for no real apparent reason other than to fuel greeting card sales during an otherwise dismal month. Aren’t we supposed to celebrate love every day? Shouldn’t we be buying cheesy teddy bears and heart-shaped boxes of chocolates for our loved ones at all times of the year?

Last night, a good friend of mine called me up to chat as we were both stuck in horrendous Boston traffic. He told me that he hates Valentine’s Day – despite the fact that he has a girlfriend. He just doesn’t see the point. Of course, he cited my previous reasons (as many other guys do): he does nice things for his girlfriend every other day out of the year, so why does he, deliberately and preparedly, have to do something just because it is February 14^th? Certainly, St. Valentine wasn’t going around marrying people in hopes that one day his act of kindness and courage would be commemorated with the exchange of Justin Bieber greeting cards between lovestruck tweens.

My friend has a point. All of one’s romance shouldn’t be saved up for one occasion, just because CVS has lined its aisles in pink- and red-themed candy on a particular day in February. However, I told my friend that he couldn’t not acknowledge Valentine’s Day – especially when his girlfriend had already remarked that she loved the holiday. Sure, there is no law that says Valentine’s Day must be observed, but we all know it’s happening, so why not indulge a little bit? If you enjoy doing nice things for your significant other, then why would you be bothered about doing another nice thing for him/her (however small or grand the gesture may be)?

I’ll admit, it’s always better when one’s motives for being romantic are a bit more organic, but Valentine’s Day has carved out a specific time in the year for some QT with you and your partner-in-crime. What's wrong with one day out of the year that encourages and endorses romance and acting on romance? Don’t take it all so seriously and just use it as an excuse for more loving, touching and squeezing.

As my title suggests, I'm sure it’s clear that I actually like Valentine’s Day. Granted, I like all holidays in general. Let’s be serious – do I strike you as someone who would turn down a celebration of any sort? I actually don’t have any Valentine’s Day plans tonight, though. Yes, I do currently have a boyfriend, but things come up, people are busy, and there just isn’t the time for that horse-drawn-carriage around the ‘burbs after a long shift at work. However, we will be celebrating Valentine’s Day at a later date, because I do think it is important to carve out time for the ones you like/love (whether it is a new beau, all of your closest pals, or a furry friend).  In the meantime, if you are looking for me, I will be at CVS buying their entire stock of Valentine’s Day themed chocolate.

And I will leave you with this...

I suggest you do what the video recommends at the end...

Nothing says "I love you" like emailing your sweetheart a cat video via YouTube.

If You're Lucky Enough to Get a Date While Living at Home...

I don't like looking at this picture very much...
but it seemed relevant... sadly.

By now, you should know that I live with my parents – if not from the fact that you have read multiple blog posts, then from the tone of self-pity and shame that haunts each of my posts. And while this actually doesn’t pose many problems, it does become a bit of an issue with one certain aspect of my life: dating.

Now, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I am not a female lothario. I could hardly be classified as a man-eater unless you want to get into the consumption and gender of my breakfast, lunch and dinner.  However, if you have even semi-interested and involved parents, then you might see how living at home can be the cause of chronic “awkward turtle” moments at the beginning of whatever budding relationship makes its way to my front door.

Any time I have gone on a first date that involves a suitor picking me up, my polite date has (usually) had the common decency to come to my door. If I lived alone or with other 20-somethings, this would not be any sort of production. In fact, it would probably be standard practice. But with my parents? This seemingly innocent moment in my fledgling of a relationship becomes fair game for them. What should be the moment my date and I lock eyes and ignite some sort of romantic fire instead becomes a verbal assault and battery as this male suitor faces my inquisitive “roommates.”

Once I can finally maneuver past my parents, shuffling my date past their barrage of questions and threats, I can breathe. Sort of. At least now, if anything embarrassing happens, it’s my fault. The date is back within my control (for the most part) and the only person I have to blame for its subsequent failure is myself. If he managed to look past my sort-of innocently-curious parents and then later seems to be exiting out of the restaurant bathroom window after I talk to him? Well, we all know the cause of that.

For the most part, he and I can laugh it off and attribute it to my parents’ always-endearing love for me, and then move on to our inevitable awkward chit-chat and sizing-up of each other… Until my date brings me home.

As he will pull up in front of my house, I make sure to check for any possible beady eyes peering out of windows. My second-check is for my dog, whose first reaction to anything within his line of vision from the window (or front yard) is to bark – loudly. When he does this, I know that whoever is within even a mile’s earshot will be notified that I have probably returned home and am experiencing that awkward moment at the end of a date where we need to decide if we’re going to shake hands, hug, kiss or just run as fast as possible away from each other. If this last parting moment between me and my date happens in the car, then at least I have a steel casing protecting me from the vision of my parents, dog and hopefully neighbors. However, if my date is really trying to step up his chivalry game and takes me to the door? I cross my fingers  and hope that my brother isn't positioned just so on the couch that he can see out the window and onto our front doorstep – a front row audience member to some guy’s attempt to end the date with something more than a nice pat on the back and “call you never.”

If I manage to make it through those final parting moments without any witnesses, I still am not yet in the clear. Believe me, I have tried to dodge past my family’s almost-meddling interest while en route to my room – but it somehow seems that I can never make it into my room before being met with a “so how was it?” And I’ll be honest, I usually don’t mind this. In fact, I do enjoy a little recap of the day/night’s events – if not just because I probably like to hear myself speak, then because I need someone to know all of the events to later help me overanalyze everything. But in those rare moments when I want to savor my experience all by myself? I will inevitably have to share something to appease the curiosity of my parents. I can’t spend a few hours with some person they have never met and then NOT tell them even a smidgeon of information– is that even possible? Any silence on my part may lead them to believe that I have just spent an hour playing mini-golf and getting ice cream with a sociopath.

Trying to keep things from my parents in general is nearly impossible for me. Not only am I a terrible liar, but I respect and love my parents and want them to know what is going on with me. I will admit, though, that there are times that this can be difficult. After all, I cannot separate what I want to share with what I don’t want to share because I live with them. They see the events of my life unfolding simply because they’re around and they can see who picks me up, who’s calling me on the phone and even who sends me flowers (even though that rarely happens -- they can still see it!).

Let's be real here. When I order something online (usually shoes... always shoes), my parents are usually the ones who retrieve it from the front doorstep and know about its arrival before I do. I can't even keep the new purchases in my life a secret from them -- how am I supposed to keep a budding relationship, something that is decidedly more important than shoes (barely), from them?

It is one of the trade-offs of living at home. Although I have been living back at home for over a year now, I am still trying to find a way to balance my new adult (sort-of) life with the comforts that come from moving back in with your parents. I am not the same person I was when I lived there back in high school and my dating patterns are certainly more different. No -- I definitely do NOT bring anyone back to my house after a successful date -- but still, even if I felt the need to extend my date to an evening romp, do I really even have a choice? (And, parents, I know you are reading this, I am not trying to offend you! -- side note: they are probably the majority of my readers) I guess the issue here is that I do not have the choice to choose the information and potentially filter it or share it the way (and on the timeline) that I want to because they see everything happening in real time.When I am hurt by a guy or when I go through a breakup, they see the tears and the pain -- so even if I want to keep it to myself, I really can't. Of course, I always eventually tell them what's going on, but I never have a moment where something can be just mine when I'm located just down the hall from them. I do not have the luxury of having a first date, processing it and then calling up my mom to tell her the highlights because there is no time to process.

I am forever grateful to my awesome "roomies" for letting me stay at home and save a few bucks, so I don't mean to sound unappreciative -- because I am! But I do think that part of growing up and becoming more independent means having to work through situations and sift through information on your own. You will be able to formulate your own resolutions to problems and your own opinions about people and information before it becomes offered up for dinner table conversation. However, it is part of the experience of living at home and learning to manage with current circumstances.

I'd also like to point out I realize that I also am cramping my parents' "dating" habits. My mom said to me, "Did you ever think that maybe you get in the way of us wanting to...[be romantic]" (I'm editing her sentence, but you can interpret that as you wish) to which I could only reply TOUCHÉ!

Thoughts? Comments? Smacking your forehead with your hand? Doh?

SNOW DAY?!

Unfortunately, this post is less about the movie and more about the actual  day itself.
from movies.tvguide.com

Let me first start off by saying: I am not a cold-weather-loving gal. I am cold for about eight months out of the year, hate piling on layers of clothing and can barely navigate through snowy weather – regardless of whether it’s on foot or by car. However, as a kid, bound to the seemingly intolerable structure that my school schedule demanded of me, I would eagerly anticipate the snow fall and its implications of potential freedom from what I then considered the “daily grind.” Never one to tempt fate, I would do all of my homework the night before while keeping my eyes glued to the scrolling queue at the bottom of the TV, which seemed to grant every other young student their wish for a day filled with sleeping in, sledding, hot chocolate and movie marathons. Every time the list would get closer to the Bs (the first letter of the town I lived in), my heart would race, palms would sweat and I’d offer up a plethora of sacrifices to the Snow Gods in exchange for the beloved “snow day.”  Once I saw my school’s name stretch across the screen, I was immersed in a single moment of pure euphoria.

However many years later, I still experience that same aching anticipation at the prospect of a “snow” day. This time, though, instead of avoiding a six-hour-day filled with geometry, the joys of physical education and twenty-minutes surviving the socially-abhorrent and “click”-ridden cafeteria, I would be avoiding a ten-hour-long-commute and eight-hour slavery to my computer screen. At the first sign of snowfall, my mind races with thoughts of “working from home,” enabling me to cuddle up on my couch and go about my usual work business, all while watching the entire first season of Downton Abbey. Of course, I realize this “snow day” is a bit different from the ones I was used to in those earlier years; however, I still feel a reprieve from a demanding work schedule and find that a little disruption in my routine goes a long way in making me feel refreshed for the next day of work. I know that some people do this every day, but when you’re chained to an excessively long commute and less-than-desirable office position, the opportunity to be uprooted and welcome a bit of “chaos” from the norm is enough to make you jump up and down in your onesie you have probably specifically saved for the cold and snowy occasion.

With the impending blizzard upon New England, I find myself treating Thursday like it’s Friday (just like I used to in the pre-post-grad era!) and looking forward to answering work emails in the company of my dog. Sure, this snow day is pre-empted by my company’s wish to keep its employees safe and out of the potential danger that associates itself with obnoxious amounts of snowfall – but the euphoria is no different from that I felt in yesteryears.

Stay warm peeps.

TMI on Thirsty Thursday

(from sheknows.com) -- Even dogs get thirsty on Thursday
And yes, I know this picture has nothing to do with the post

It feels as though every time I go to a bar, I come back with a story. True, sometimes that story is incredibly dull, other times that story is wildly amusing -- but on some occasions (and this one in particular), I come back with a story that leaves me contemplating the so-called progress of humanity. As I've claimed on multiple posts, I love talking and I love meeting new people; so when I'm at a bar, where people clamor about drink in hand and with considerably less social armor, I am more than willing to strike up a conversation with anyone who wishes to engage in one with me. Luckily not too often, this leaves me to be the victim of some bad pick-up line or a feeble attempt to get my phone number. However, I find that most of the time I have a new character to add to my increasingly lengthy and poorly-selling-future biography, preferably in some chapter called "Cocktails Are to Blame."

In my most recent bar escapade, I was engaging in what I like to believe is a national pastime called "Thirsty Thursday" -- a beloved tradition where working guys and girls let off some steam at a local watering hole on the wannabe-weekend-Thursday. My commitment to this activity waned as I graduated and found that waking up on Friday mornings at 7:30 was exponentially more painful after a few cocktails the night before; however, in the interest of the #YOLO movement, I've been trying to do my best to uphold a certain standard of "fun" in my life.

This week, I met up with a regular Thursday night companion of mine -- a close guy friend from high school who always makes me feel as though I'm ninety years old whenever I turn down his "going-out-to-bar" invites. I mentally prepared myself all day for this night out, so by the time 10PM came, I was already in my leather pants and 4-inch-heels, and armed with enough cash to get me suitably buzzed. Normally, when meeting my friend at the bar, I will text him "where are you," "are you in the bar yet," and other overtly insecure text messages to prevent the dreaded solo entrance and subsequent awkward search of my friend inside the bar. However, for whatever reason, that night, I didn't care that I was alone and decided to own my temporary loner status, standing at the corner of a bar with my beer in hand.

I did the usual scope-out/creeping of the bar -- I am always amused by the interactions among friend groups and guy/gal pick-ups. I try to get a sense of who's on a first date and who has been together for too long (easy to pick out if you see someone rolling their eyes at their companion and on their tenth drink). While doing this scan of the room, I was called out for being alone by a man standing close to me at the bar. With his slicked back hair and seedy smile, I tried not to stereotype, but I could sense that this was not the kind of guy who was going to ask me what my thoughts were on the current political climate and then compliment my feminist ethics. 

Instead, he asked me what I was doing -- presumably to find out if I was waiting for my boyfriend -- to which I responded, "standing at a bar." He used this opportunity to compliment me, telling me that I was doing a "good job," and I told him that "I have been training my entire life for this. Thank you." Our  brief interaction had caught the attention of another gentleman at the bar, who had noticed my accent, or, more accurately, lack thereof, prompting him to ask me if I was from around here. "Yes, why?" The more polite gentleman inched closer, probably to ol slick's dismay as my attention was diverted from his predictable lines.

In only a matter of minutes. the floodgates had been opened. I had been alone, unguarded and open to advances. My lack of companion acted as a signal to my solo male counterparts and they took this as an opportunity to become a part of a bar duo. 

Now, I understand that none of this is a particularly novel bar story. It is pretty typical, but I suppose where things began to stray from the norm came from what I found to be a surprisingly no-holds-barreds strategy on the part of these two "gentleman."

Case in point -- let's take a look at the opening fellow, whom we shall call "Slick." I found out, very quickly, that he was 31 and on the prowl. Not only that, but when I suggested that this night needed to get more exciting, either with a bar-fight or a dance-off, he willingly offered himself as a participant. He said that he wanted to be punched. I told him that I thought he definitely deserved a punch in the face, but, he not one to pick up on not-so-subtle-hints, went on to describe the length of his "member," claiming to be a part of the 9+ inch "club." Maybe it's just me, but when did this become normal conversational fodder? I have only been out of the dating game for a mere 4-5 months, and yet, it seems to me that discussing phallic measurements is something that should be reserved for not just a date, but maybe (generously) a third date, preferably as a joke (like "ha ha, jk, lol"). 

Slick was not yet done with his inappropriate conversation topics. At one point, even though my friend had added himself to this conversational mess (by the time my friend arrived at the bar, he was joining me and these two guys,) I ended up alone again with Slick beside me. He began to ask me a much-too-profound question for a Thursday night at a bar: "What do you want out of life?" I'm assuming he thought I'd respond by outlining a specific career choice, but instead, I told him that "I just want to be happy." He didn't like my answer, finding it far too ambiguous, so proceeded to tell me what he wanted out of life: "I want to be married with three kids - two boys and one girl." I'm pretty sure as he told me this he slurred his words. And you know what? That would have been okay... if he had stopped there. How he made the transition to this next comment, I don't even remember. I just remember being horrified. He then told me: "My ex-girlfriend is getting an abortion."

Yes, let that soak in for a minute. This complete stranger, who had already informed me of his supposed crotch measurements and life goals had just shared some extremely personal (and not even his OWN personal) information with me. I told him that "that's not something you share with a person you just met at a bar" and promptly ended that conversation. My friends, that is what we call: TMI (too much information). I don't know what about that serves the purpose of picking up a lady at a bar, but I can assure you, it doesn't work. It won't ever work. Do I have a label on my forehead that says, "Please have wildly inappropriate small talk with me. Reward: my phone number" -- (assuming my phone number actually could be considered a reward.)

I thought things might be better with Bachelor #2 -- we can call this gentleman "Peach," as he hails from Georgia and he had a bald head. He was incredibly nice and engaging. He had the banter thing down and even after I made the obligatory mention of my boyfriend, he still hung out with me and my guy friend for the remainder of the night -- something that is a rarity in the bar scene. Our small talk was seemingly harmless: the usual what do you do for work, what are you up to tonight, let's comment on things going on at the bar, etc. However, at some point, the conversation veered into "too personal" territory. As Peach and I began to discuss the concept of "one night stands," (he was not trying to invite me to one, for the record) he went on to tell me some details about his life that were a bit jarring -- I had only met this guy less than an hour ago. I found that he was 27 (okay), divorced (eh, that's still not a big deal), had a 7-year-old kid (ummm, still alright) and also had a vasectomy. What? Is it common for guys to share the status of their inner-man-tubes? Is that sort of thing supposed to come up in chit chat? And furthermore, why did I need to know this? How was this relevant to me? Oh yeah, relevant so that he could tell me that he wasn't sure he could actually have a one-night-stand with someone he just met because he doesn't like to wear condoms when engaging in intercourse and... well, I'm going to stop that right there for the sake of maintaining a PG-13 status for my blog, but I'm sure you can infer a few things about the rest of that conversation. So, COOL. Thanks for letting me know, Peach. Pertinent information and a lovely way to mark your memory in my mind for eternity. The fact that he later told me I was the prettiest girl at the bar did NOT, in any way shape or form, detract from my bewilderment at his sharing of these earlier facts. I. Just. Met. You.

Now, I tell you about these interactions, because I feel as though both prompt the question of WHY? If you're a single guy, I mean, I have to know -- why would anyone tell this to a single lady? Granted, these guys had both found out I had a boyfriend, so that was already off the table, but does that still even make it okay? If I hadn't disclosed my "taken" status, would they have told me these things? I don't see how sharing this information with me could have led these guys to believe that I would look upon them more favorably. Was it their attempt to turn me on? If anything, it turned me off... I may be turned off for years at this point and may have to re-consider any sort of nostalgia for my intermittent single lady days.

Should I just keep my mouth shut from now on or, if I choose to continue to engage in conversation with people at bars, should I realize that this might just have to be expected? 

Until next Thursday...

When "Unfriending" Gets Personal

from everydaypeoplecartoons.com

When things go sour offline, should you make a change online? This is the sort of question I pondered as I realized that some of my Facebook friends were less “friend” and more “frenemy” of sorts. These people, once an integral and involved part of my life, now had drifted towards mere association and, to cue Gotye, perhaps even somebody that I used to know. They had at times been privy to my innermost secrets, thoughts and opinions, were up-to-date on all of the happenings of my life and shared many an inane inside joke with me. But now? The only entity dubbing us “friends” and maintaining that pseudo-connection was Facebook. So do I keep up the illusion of a friendship via internet or sever the Facebook ties?

I’m sure, if you’ve read a few of my posts, you would classify this as “classic Angela – overanalyzing a simple situation,” but in this age of overexposure, where everything in your life seems to be offered up for public consumption, I feel as though this is a legitimate question.

Let’s take Facebook (and other social media platforms in general) out of the equation for a minute. Let’s think back to when “poking” required actual physical contact and, in order to find out what your friends were up to, you actually had to speak to them and ask them what they were up to. If you were to part ways with a friend or eventually fade from each other’s lives, that friend would no longer have access to the details of your life: where you were last weekend, whom you’re dating, what your thoughts are on Kimye’s bun in the oven. With Facebook? You can go your separate ways and still know exactly what the other person is doing all day every day just by glimpsing at your news feed.

But do they deserve to know? When you no longer play a role in that former friend’s life, should they really be allowed to know that you just entered into a relationship with someone new? That you celebrated a new promotion? That your goldfish died and you are in mourning? These are moments and experiences that you tend to want to share with the most important people in your lives – friends, yes; frenemies, no. I find it a little harrowing sometimes that people with whom I’m not very close can know so much about me without even needing to talk to me. Granted, maybe that’s a sign I should change my privacy settings or even whittle down my friend pool. However, I think, in terms of cutting ties with old friends, that it might just be another step to letting go and accepting the end of a friendship.

It is really difficult when you reach the end of a friendship with someone – whether due to mistakes made, transitioning through different parts of life or because you’ve grown apart – and I think it can be just as difficult to sever that tie online. This is the last remaining tie to that person. At the same time, if they (or you) have chosen not to be a part of your (their) life, then maybe that means they should no longer have access to the online equivalent of your life.  After all, if they wouldn’t hear about it from you personally in conversation, then maybe they shouldn’t be able to hear about it from an online source. Sounds a bit like Facebook is a gossip monger, spreading news to people who wouldn’t hear about it otherwise if not for Facebook’s big mouth!

Okay, but I digress. I suppose my only hesitation in “unfriending” is the inevitable implications – that I am being dramatic about the ending of said friendship, that the other person would even notice (or that I even show up on my former friend’s news feed), or maybe that it might even add fuel to the fire (a fire I don't want to re-ignite or make worse - seriously). I am sad enough that I even need to contemplate this with people I once considered best friends, but like I said before, it just might need to be part of accepting and respecting their wishes and moving on. I don’t know.

What I do know is that if friendship is defined as “a friendly relation or intimacy” (thanks dictionary.com), then Facebook friendships are certainly stretching that definition. When your relation with someone is no longer friendly nor intimate, then it might be time to “unfriend,” and prohibit that person’s access to details that they would only get if they still were friendly and intimate.

Ah, yes – if this doesn’t make you long for simpler times, then I don’t know what will. Maybe one day, you and those former friends (and former Facebook friends) will find a way back to each other again and move past things offline and eventually make your friendship Facebook official again as well. But in the mean time, I suppose it’s time to get to re-evaluating what friendship means to you – both online and offline.