Dream: Oh, Facebook, it's not you, it's me...

I should have known that my relationship with Facebook was doomed from the start.

I'd resisted its charms for years, but a co-worker that I was friendly with (notice we weren't friends) insisted that I had to get on Facebook.  She said it so many times that I believed her.

I nervously set up a profile, and, because asking someone to be my friend churns up all kinds of buried playground trauma, I started with a small group of people I felt confident would deign to be my friend. Naturally, I was wrong. 

That co-worker?  The one who insisted I had to be on Facebook, the one whom I'd just given a lead on some freelance work, the one whose daughter I forced my own girls to play with in the interest of collegiality?  Yup.  She ignored my friend request.

Stung by that rejection I never sent another friend request, so though I dutifully accept every request I receive, I have a pitifully low number.  Paradoxically, it is a number so low that I can't bring myself to make any further requests lest people who previously thought I was perfectly normal wonder why it is I am so terribly unpopular.

But even if we could work through that --because, let's face it, that problem is on my end, Facebook and I are just not compatible.  I am not Facebook's type.

Imagine I am sitting in a room with people that I know, sort of know and used to know (and all of the people that they know, sort of know and used to know). If a former co-worker stood up and announced, "Eating a muffin.  Mmmm," I would not rise to say, "Yummers!".  Nor would I make a frowny face and shout "So jealous!"  I wouldn't even think to offer a supportive thumbs up.

If I had a bad day at work, I might spend time brooding about the direction of my life, I might unleash my frustration on those around me, but I'd never walk into that crowded room, stand on a chair and yell, "Is it Friday yet?", and then wink and grin.  I don't even know how to wink.

Much as I'd love to be the girl with the witty rejoinder when the guy I sat next to in junior year history jumps up and shouts "Charlie Sheen!", that's just not me.  While all around me shouted out "Winning!", laughed out loud and even laughed their asses off, I'd likely be nodding awkwardly and waiting for the moment to pass.

When the lady who lives across the street kept demanding that everyone give her a thumbs up for taking brave stands like hating cancer and loving her kids, well, I might hold my thumbs just to be contrary.  And when a girl I haven't seen since junior high went on and on about imaginary crops on her non-existent farm, I'd start to wonder why I was hanging out in this room at all.

But when a cousin I barely knew held up photographic evidence of the bunny that her mother's dog had mauled that morning?  I'd head for the door. (And, sadly, no, that one wasn't a hypothetical).

And yet I can't bring myself to walk out on Facebook.  Maybe I'm waiting for someone to share a Starbucks cup quote or laughing baby video that will change my life.  Maybe I'm just afraid everyone will start talking about me when I leave.  I pack my bags, but I just can't make myself go.

Oh, Facebook, it's not you, it's me. We were never meant to be, and I've got to cut you loose.

But it might be one of those long, tortured breakups.