Putting the End in Friend

Writers get rejected a lot. As far as I can tell, it's simply a fact you learn to get used to, and then you move on. Submit somewhere else. Write something new. Take up ice dancing or handicrafts, for the love of Pete, if only for the diversion.

You'd think that all that rejection would prepare a person for the tricky-to-navigate world of Facebook unfriending, but no. Yours vicariously recently has been cast out of several friends' lists, and at first I was hurt. Then confused. Then I forgot about it, and went to see Bridesmaids with one of my oldest, dearest, most hilarious friends, and realized these particular Deleters were people I only sort of knew. It would be super-awkward going to a movie with them. I wouldn't want our hands to accidentally touch in the popcorn tub.

But still. It's like a weird cyber break-up, sans confrontation. It's like the little notes I sometimes get back when I send my writing out to various publications. "We loved it! The language is evocative and haunting! But in no way is this right for us!"

Yes, right! Wait. What?

I set out to understand why this virtual shunning had happened. My research showed that "Unfriending Day" wasn't until Nov. 17. Hmm.

This article was similarly informative: a study found that most people are unfriended for inflammatory posts or mundane posts. And here's a nice little kicker for this new mom: “As soon as you have a baby, you become uninteresting,” noted one survey respondent.

Ouch. Or to paraphrase Ben Folds Five, Eff you, too.

Some light self-reflection reminded me of my unwritten rules: I try not to post about anything I wouldn't say loudly in public. That leaves out, at minimum: politics, religion, the best swear words, and the consistency of my baby's poop. (But if other people post on these topics? I will add my two cents. Loophole city, sweetheart.) It doesn't mean I don't swear, or think about religion, politics, and poop. I do. More often than I'd like, most days. But I just don't air my opinions in a loud voice, in public. It's the best gauge I can think of, when it comes to sharing and oversharing online.

So: what's left? Well, there's always food. Is food mundane? On occasion I will announce what I've just consumed/am about to consume/am thinking about consuming at an undetermined point in the future. Mayhaps this is related to my recent extra caloric intake (see: baby). Maybe I am simply a sinning glutton. Even food is political; again, happy to discuss this with you face to face, not so much online. (Because then there is a record. Which you will use against me when I rail against Americans' bad eating habits, Hoosiers especially, then go buy designer cupcakes at my favorite designer cupcakery. If our conversation's over dinner, I can always blame the wine, or your hearing.) I don't post about food that often, I swear. And one of the people who deleted me does. Or rather, did. Sniff.

Besides updating about my uninteresting life and baby, I often post about writing, books and education. Because you know what I like? Writing. And books. Also, education. One recent deleter is a writer and teacher, someone I'd met and admire. (Should I be writing in the past tense? It's not like this is death. More like the type of breakup where the other person suddenly stops talking to you.) This person had signed my books and my wall, and the unplugging stung a little. We still have a dozen mutual writer/teacher friends, and the witty repartee continues around the cyber water cooler. But this writer? Rejected. Was it a friend purge? Did I say the wrong thing? I'm too embarrassed and proud to ask.

There's always a chance you will see your Deleter in person after the deed is done. I recently attended an event where that very thing happened. It was less awkward than you might think, even though this was a Very Special Deleter, for I had been added and deleted, then re-added and re-deleted. That's right. Two times I was deemed "not friend material." Or in '80s movie terms, I must've had The Wrong Stuff, and All the Wrong Moves. Since our in-person encounter was perfectly cordial, and I still get very nice occasional email forwards, we will chalk up the double-delete to generational differences in the understanding and use of current social networking technology. That, or my online persona, and perhaps my very self, is a total asshole.

"How do you even know who deleted you?" my husband asked. "I don't pay attention."

"I hadn't seen posts from those people in awhile, so I went looking for them, and it said 'Add as a Friend.' I'd sometimes hide their posts because one said something borderline racist. Another updated nonstop about the most trivial things. I wondered if they were still posting borderline racist stuff or completely trivial things, so..."

"You're upset that someone you hid is no longer there?"

Yeah. Smart husband. I wanted to be the Deleter, not the Deleted. The dumper, not the dumpee. Dumpette. Backing up my dump truck of online friends with a beep-beep-beep, and out you go.

It feels silly, investing so much meaning in an action that likely took less than one second. Click. But that's just it: actions mean something, and friends do, too. They mean different things to different people.

Listen. Don't feel rejected, but I've gotta get back to the Book of Faces. I have 72 new photos of the baby to upload. But I will continue to exercise the utmost discretion and restraint. Not a single one of them involves poop. This time.