People asked the meaning of this #lifechoice, this hot new flavor, my recent self-identification as a “Weekend Instagrammer.”
Here’s the scoop, ice cream.
On Sunday night I delete Instagram from my internet-phone. That’s what I call her. “Smart phone” is too laudatory and without a cheque from Apple, I’ll be damned if I pollute my prose with camel case.
(Aside: Big Tech has conned us all into peppering our speech with branded terminology. It’s pathetic. If I ever say: “I reached into my LG refrigerator for some Hellman’s,“ have me put down.)
Five glorious days without an infinity feed pouring into my eyeballs. A micro-vacay from playing-card-sized “content” eight inches from my face. A stay from the black hole of attention sucking away my life in sitcom-sized chunks of time.
Instead, I’ll check my email and then do something else. Usually outside.
On Friday, I download the app again. To be clear, this is not a scheduled event (I’m not a dweeb), it just happens. I scroll down no more than four inches. I watch videos. I respond to your memes.
I’m not writing this post because I think I’m better than you (although I do think that, for different reasons). I’m not trying to change you. I’m responding to a very specific reaction to my neo-luddite, Doug Stamper-esque, arm’s reach approach to social media, namely, “That’s amazing. I wish I could live without Instagram.”
It’s not amazing. You can live without Instagram.
The concept of ad platforms masquerading as social connection hijacking our motivation-based brain chemistry is quite new on the timeline of human history and (if I recall correctly) we all lived without it only a few short years ago. I could be wrong. Brain fog is real.
Instagram and Facebook used to be cool. Today I would dub them “cheugy” if I knew what that meant.