Just Another Source of Social Anxiety

This one may have been in dry dock a while. (I'm just guessing by the way the boards are all pulled away from one another so as to create a gigantic ship-shaped colander effect.)

So this past weekend I went and got all 21st Century and started a Facebook account. I'd like to blame my good friend from Katie's Calamities , who convinced me in her patented boundlessly enthusiastic way that "Facebook is fun!" I was lured in by her recounting the stories of late nights writing on friends' "walls" (what's not fun about graffiti?) and then the deal was sealed as she expounded on the joys of reconnecting with old friends from high school (this was before I regrettably unblocked certain (okay, all) memories of my high school experience).

After setting up a facelessbook wall (didn't upload a picture, what a loser) I went looking for some graffiti opportunities. That was fun. I wrote on Startastical's wall, and then on Misty's and Lexie's. I asked my sister-in-law whether she'd be my "friend." Thankfully she accepted. She even wrote on my wall. Whew. That could've been embarrassing at Easter dinner, huh?

Speaking of embarrassing, there are three people I'm now avoiding on Facebook. I know all you popular people are avoiding WAY more people than that, but bear with me. I simply can't remember who they are and I'm afraid they might be weirdos who just up and try to befriend any technophobe dumb enough to say yes to a name they've never heard. Is this possible, technically speaking?

Continuing on the Luddite theme, I keep thinking a simpler life might be in order. In fact I ordered two custom-painted "simplify" signs for my house. Mmm-hmm, I said two. I know from irony, friends.


Hip update: I act like I'm basically fine at the physical therapist. I'm here for fun, doncha know. I don't belong in this gym full of geriatrics. (No offense.) It's quite possible the physical therapist thinks I'm wasting her time. But to tell the truth I bawl as soon as I gut it out and walk through sheer determination in an upright manner back to my Suburban. I hang onto the oh-bleep handles and thank God for the running boards as I pull myself in. Then I sit and bawl. Every time.



Because it hurts like a son-of-a-pun. Maybe I should go tell my Facebook friends. (And this is to what it boils down... or it boils down to this... or to this it simmers ... crud. Prepositions be danged. I can't even tell my PHYSICAL THERAPIST about my excruciating pain level because it might, I don't know, make her think less of me. Or make her worry. How the heck did I think that another medium in which to spend time trying to hide my freakishly self-conscious real self... why did I think that would be fun?)

Yeah.