Un-friend etiquette

8 Oct

I’ve got 50 friends on Facebook that I barely, if ever, speak to. Most of them I added when the thrill of Facebook was still new. I was recently returned from Kenya, nursing a broken life and wanting to catch up with some old school mates.

Never happened.

Then, when I moved to Sydney, I thought it’d be cool to keep in touch with those old school mates who lived in Sydney. Just, you know, in case we ever caught up there.

Also never happened. 

So now, I kinda want to get rid of them. Because I don’t really feel the need to keep up to date with what people I don’t even know are doing. But as I trawl through the list, it feels like that feeling I get when I try to throw out an old jumper – I know I’m never going to wear it again because really, what was I thinking when I bought it – hot pink? Really? – then put it through the dryer, but I can’t chuck it because I know that one day I’m going to need a neon coloured doll-sized jumper.

Anyway, I ditched a few today. The ones whose faces and names I couldn’t quite place, or who regularly make me cringe. The others, I’m mulling over. But I really just want to un-friend all but a handful of people who I actually communicate with. You know. In the real world. Urgh. I sound old.

But if it’s one thing I don’t want to do it’s to offend these strangers. It’s almost as though I need to put up a pre de-friend warning. Like, ‘Dude, you’re awesome and all, but I couldn’t pick you out of a lineup of serial killers. Unfriend.’ Because, let’s face it, I’m friends with people I remember from primary school. People I haven’t seen since grade two. The conversations we’d have if we ever did find ourselves in the same room together would revolve around plastic dial phones, finger paint, and that time Mel threw up during story time. Cool, but totally irrelevant to who I am today.

In other news, I’m obsessing over having a short luteal phase. Because, you know, there’s gotta be something wrong with me because I’m not pregnant yet. Despite the temps, handfuls of vitamins and perfectly timed love life. In reality (that happy place I can never find during the two-week wait before my period inevitably arrives) I’m fine, and this whole baby thing will probably just take time. In the meantime I will continue to obsess. And count days. And realise that the flock of coldsores, extreme fatigue and spreading rash has probably more to do with spring than a blastocyst implanting.

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