“You never heart my posts on Instagram,” a dear friends complains.
“I heart you in person,” I counter, perplexed. “I heart the hell out of you.” I think of the many ways I heart her, ways that are thoughtful, meaningful, filled with love and admiration. I think her calling me out on not hearting her on Instagram is silly.
#noroomforacouch
But I believe in giving the people I love what they want. I check my Instagram feed several times daily, hearting, hearting, hearting.
My friend is beautiful, posts lots of selfies, changes her profile photo every few days. I start to notice the rhythms of other friends I follow: an aerialist who posts short videos of herself practicing silks, zillions of photos of her modeling her uber impressive wardrobe; a man I met in a ski village in Kashmir who posts snowcapped mountains year-round; a thirty-something single woman who posts a parade of quotes about men and relationships; an animal welfare activist whose entire feed features her dogs.
It’s late November, frigid, and I’m feeling blue. I’m lying on my couch, binge-watching Netflix, Sons of Anarchy, flipping through my Instagram feed, when I start to wonder: If Gemma Teller were on Instagram, what would she post?
Good God, the modern world of communication. Boggles my mind.