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.

Play: Throwing caution to the wind

Last Friday night I had an adventure.  It involved a very small mini-van, some baby hamburgers, a petite pizza, just one Stella and a platter of shrunken pastries, and it had me clutching my (imaginary) pearls.

It started with an innocent plan to hit the mall with my good friend, owner of the (micro) mini van.  She and  I met about eight years ago when we were both teaching English at the same urban high school.  We've both since moved on from that school but continued to grow our friendship over shared dressing rooms at Ann Taylor Loft and margaritas.  She is someone whom I've always considered to be very much like me: we are both wives and mothers; we share similarly lefty political leanings; we have writerly aspirations; and, when we're together, we both get pretty giddy on just one drink.  On Friday night, though, she demonstrated for me our differences.

As we pulled away from my house, she proposed a change of plans.  Instead of going a few towns away to the mall, we could drive an extra 20 minutes or so and go into Boston for dinner.  It was a beautiful night and this was, of course, a totally reasonable idea.  I knew this, and yet as I smiled and agreed to the new plan, I felt myself silently panicking, clutching at my metaphorical pearls.  Only I don't wear pearls, because that's really not the image I like to portray...despite being exactly the kind of woman who gets a little short of breath when the mileage between my children and me increases (negligibly), when the time away from the family that I've blocked out for myself increases (slightly), when the evening I'd plotted in my mind changes (even for the better).

As she aggressively maneuvered through city traffic, she pointed out apartments she'd lived in, restaurants she'd eaten in, landmarks from her pre-minivan life.  She talked about buying a one-way ticket to Boston and starting out on her own after college, mixing pancake batter in a plastic bag because she didn't own a bowl.  I was in awe.

There was a time when I was spontaneous and free-wheeling.  After growing up in a tiny backwoods town and going to a small private high school filled with a group of teenagers more obedient than any I have since encountered, I went to college determined to be the girl who was up for anything.  By the end of freshman year all I had to show for it was pasty skin, some serious bloat, hefty overdraft fees and a GPA that hovered just above the lower threshold of the university's patience.  And so I grew cautious.

Ultimately, the caution with which I've lived has yielded the things I value most in my life: my children and my marriage.  But on Friday night I realized that it has also permeated my life beyond the point of necessity and that it's not something that I want to pass on to my girls.  While I don't want them to buy a one-way ticket to anywhere, ever, I do want them to understand that a summer night out in the city is a pleasure and not a reason for panic.

So, do stay tuned as I make a plan to work on learning how to sometimes deviate from the plan and thank you, friend, for the lesson.