Dearest Rachel –
I never was much for any of the social media juggernauts; I never had an account on Facebook, unlike you (although now that I’ve linked your account to my phone, I get notifications just about every day about one or another of your friends posting something and supposedly tagging you – to be honest, I think it’s just more of a general thing, as opposed to them addressing you directly; why would they bother to do that?), and I didn’t create an account on Instagram until after you were gone. I think I had planned on making a record of my travels, but it turned out to be so much easier for me to do so on YouTube, which was a platform I was both familiar and comfortable with. So, the “Notes from the Abandoned Planet” account is every bit as abandoned by me as Earth is by you at this point.
The thing is, I’m not only unfamiliar with the way things are done on Instagram in terms of uploading and presentation, I’m not good at properly highlighting my life. My understanding is that the typical content creator uses the best three percent of their life to imply that the other ninety-seven percent is just as spectacular (#SoBlessed), and I just can’t lie to myself that well, never mind to others. I just don’t live an Instagram-worthy life.
Now, you might argue that I’ve done a lot over the past few years (which you’ve heard about secondhand from me, since you weren’t here to participate in any of it) that might well have made for decent content on that site. The trip from this spring was certainly a once-in-a-lifetime thing that ought to have been shown off. And in my defense, I’d say what I did, in terms of recording it both here and on YouTube, did it some measure of justice.
But Instagram looks to me to be this place for beautiful people living beautiful lives doing beautiful things. While I realize that most of what it contains is a façade to one extent or another, I assuredly don’t feel like I’m any one of those things, and I can’t (and won’t) fake it to the point of making content that deserves a place there. You’re familiar enough with life to know how ordinary it is most of the time; you spend enough time on the other side of the curtain, and “the great and powerful Oz” just doesn’t seem impressive enough to tell others about, let alone try to convince others about its might when you know that it’s only held together with chewing gum and baling wire.
So it is with today. By rights, every Christmas – indeed, every holiday – ought to be special. We only get a few of them in our lives; barely enough to fill two or three months (less, in your case, of course). But the day started just like any other day; getting up and going through my news feed as I prepared to wash up and get dressed. I could have even gone to the gym this morning – while there will be none of their staff there, due to the holiday, the doors unlock automatically at a set hour every day, and in any event, I don’t interact with the staff in any event – if it weren’t for the fact that I needed to get to the folks’ place (not the ‘office,’ mind you) in order to finish preparing the traditional soufflé dish for baking. I could have gotten a workout in had I left for the gym at four, but having crashed last night well after ten – and still needing to wrap one last present I’d forgotten to bring over yesterday – that wasn’t going to be possible. In any event, none of that seems like the sort of thing to go onto Instagram with to say “look at how special and perfect my life is!” when it clearly isn’t.
To be sure, this Instagram moment is a (one would hope) a once-in-a-lifetime moment of its own; one doesn’t make or receive marriage proposals with any regularity in one’s life (and if one did, there’s something rather wrong with them, to either be so casually serial in momentary monogamy or constantly suffering rejection). And if that’s what it takes to be worthy of the site, well, it’s a wonder people are still using it, when no one’s life holds that much excitement on a daily – or even regular – basis.
Then again, maybe I’m overlooking the wonder contained in the simple, ordinary, but still beautiful moments as I should; the glow of the candles as they spread out through the auditorium, the tang of a fresh fruit I’ve never tried before, the sight of a place I don’t call home (or even something I haven’t noticed until now about our home, or home town). Oh, I’ll tell you about those things here, but I think of them as unworthy of a place like Instagram. Or maybe it’s just me that isn’t worthy. Certainly, it can’t be Christmas’ fault.
In any event, perhaps I need to get on with living it for today. As I do, though, keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck. I’m going to need it.
Letters to Rachel 