Tag Archives: Minnesota

Fed up with Facebook: Why I quit my social media addiction

My friend Celeste says our generation’s contribution to evolution will be smaller thumbs. Why? With all the cell phone communication of today, our thumbs will progressively shrink in order to aide us in texting, scrolling, and emailing from the comfort of our mini hand-held telephones. If you live in a bustling metropolis, you’ll know what I’m talking about. While you will still find many riders abord city transport reading the newspaper or, heaven forbid, a book, most people are attached to their cell phones like a druggie on crack. As the world grows increasingly more individualistic and our opportunities for virtual relationships go up, our outlets for real human interaction are reduced to the size of a peanut. Blame it on the Blackberry or the iPhone or Twitter, if you like, but when was the last time you looked your fellow metro rider in the eye and said hello? Here in Paris, such audacious friendliness would get you at the very least an annoyed stare and more realistically, mutterings of “Leave me alone, crazy lady.”

I have recently decided to take a self-imposed social media vacation. Call it amazing willpower if you like, but I think it has more to do with intense exasperation. How could I not be fed up with myself? My morning ritual had become: Wake up to alarm. Check emails on Blackberry. Check Facebook wall. Check weather on Blackberry internet browser. Get ready for work. Listen to music on Mp3 player. Get on metro. Check Facebook wall again. Look at new text messages and respond. Witness funny, interesting or weird event in metro and describe, using witty repartee, for publication on Facebook wall. Arrive at work. Check to see if any “friends” have “liked” comment about funny, interesting, weird event in metro. Put phone in pocket and repeat above steps.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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Needless to say, I’ve had enough. Last night, I stayed on Facebook searching friends’ photos and obsessively checking who was on the chat in a last attempt to be connected before I shut off for good. (In reality, all I have to do to get my Facebook account back is sign in, but it’s the thought that counts.) At midnight, I checked myself out. Yet, I still felt I hadn’t done enough. To the Blackberry I went, removing the Facebook application as well as the internet browser. No more impulsive searching for needless information I simply must know rightthisminute. And finally, I set my phone’s email alert to quiet and hid the application in a place I hoped I wouldn’t remember to find.

Three days later, anxiety set in. Of all my media cut-offs, Facebook withdrawal was the worst. I started to fret about what everyone else was doing and had the sneaking suspicion I was missing out. Worse, were there events I wasn’t going to be invited to because I was no longer people’s “friends”? Would I be subject to the dreaded “Out of sight, out of mind” adage? The next day, I got caught in the rain without my umbrella, not having checked the weather from my Blackberry in the morning as usual. And in the metro without my Facebook to check on my Blackberry, I twiddled my thumbs staring at all the bored Parisian faces… who were all on their cell phones.

But then a funny thing happened. The anxiety of worrying about what I was missing in other people’s lives was replaced by the filling up of my own reality. Instead of wasting all this time in my virtual life, I started truly living my real one. That bored Parisian face on the metro wasn’t in fact bored. She was crying, perhaps over a lost lover or sick parent – who knows – but she smiled gratefully when I offered her a Kleenex… something I may not have thought to do if I were attached to my phone. And for the first time in months, I read the whole newspaper on my ride to work, without interruption from one of my many handheld media outlets.

Not only was the mental fog slowly lifting, but so were the needless thoughts about people I really should be forgetting. The frenemy who offended me last week is easier to ignore when I don’t have to see her face on my Facebook wall every morning. And that email from my mother about what meal I want when I first arrive in the US next week? It can wait until I get home tonight.

What disturbs me in all of this is what I thought I was getting out of my virtual social circle. With constructing the perfect witty comment for all my Facebook friends to see, I was also inevitably hoping for a response, a “like” or a virtual pat on the back. It didn’t so much matter that my 407 friends knew about the Spanish tourist who spent five minutes on the Parisian metro floor in his attempt to dislodge an Orangina bottle from the vending machine, as it did that people thought my comment was damn funny. But it’s more than needing mass approval or validation. It’s the need to be part of something bigger than ourselves, to be a member of a community in the world at large, to not feel so alone in this expanding universe as people get more spread out by globalisation, and increasingly disconnected from one another. Why else would people feel the inescapable urge to post things like, “I ate strawberries for dinner tonight!” or “Go Bears!”

But being connected isn’t always so rosy. The need to “Keep up with the Jones’s” is palpable, what with the bombardment of friends’ beautiful baby photos, wedding announcements or news of new houses, jobs or clothes. You’ll be hard-pressed to find friends who will publicly announce their parents’ divorce, alcohol addiction or daily unhappiness. Thanks to Facebook, Twitter and the like, grass on the other side always seems better manicured, mowed and watered. On this side, there’s always something that needs improving, which I suppose is fine if that means being more motivated to make positive life changes, but if every friend’s beautiful baby photo makes you less and less happy about being without child, your mood is doomed to go sour.

Now a week into my social media break, I feel better. Calmer, more in control. Present. When I’m at the grocery store checkout, I’m not simultaneously festering over the photos my ex-boyfriend has posted of him and his new girlfriend on Facebook. I’m just looking the cashier in the eye and taking my change. Life feels simpler, less chaotic… strange. It will take me a few weeks to get used to this. Already the urges to get reconnected are trickling in. I almost cracked yesterday but I resisted, with the help of my friend here in Paris. That’s the difference between a Facebook friend and a real one. When the shit hits the fan, your virtual community can only help you so much.

Maybe someday I’ll go back. Maybe that someday will be next week, or even tomorrow. But living in the present seems pretty good to me right now, so I’m holding my ground. After all, despite what this bustling world might emit to the contrary, all we really have is right now, this moment, in the place where you are reading this very article. And if you’re playing Sudoku on your cell phone instead, you just might miss it.

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The ‘F’ in February stands for F%$#ing cold!

It is not human to endure this sort of suffering. I seem to tell myself this each and every February, as hellish January (and December, for that matter) has come to a close, leaving me with unbearable February. There is just nothing good about this month, apart from the cheap chocolate fallout from Valentine’s Day, a holiday that inevitably has me alternating between gagging and feeling incredibly sorry for myself.

But my real bone to pick with February is this god awful, torturous cold. It’s like that nagging ex who just won’t get the hint to fuck off once and for all. I know I am from Minnesota and I am supposed to be “used to it” (as every French person tells me during the winter months, as if my being born in a cold state means I was also born with a thick coat of fur like a polar bear), but I’m just not. I’m so beyond fed up.

And I wondered how many others felt this way, in a city such as Paris where girls walk around in sheer tights, miniscule leather coats and wet hair in the middle of a snowstorm. Until I listened to the not-so-subtle clues… and turns out, everyone is fed up. “J’en peux plus!”, “J’en ai marre!” Ok, Frenchies, we get it, you’ve had enough! Me too.

But what to do? I do not have enough cash from my pathetic high school girl’s job to take a trip to the islands, or even the south of France, if that’s even better than here.

In my dire state, I have plastered cheesy pictures of tropical beaches – white sand, shimmering turquoise waters… the occasional tiki hut – to the wall in front of my desk. So, while I am actually typing about Iranian female autobiographies written in exile, I am imagining myself lying semi-clothed in the shallow end of the Mediterranean. I can almost taste the sweet syrup of my Pina Colada – served, of course, by a tan, bare-chested barman – when BAM!!

The window in the hallway is blown open, the black packing tape that my roommate has affixed to keep it wedged closed having come loose, and an enormous “courant d’air” sweeps through my bedroom. And great. My lungs go directly into spasm. Bronchitis. Again. Damn those French people and their fixation on “attraper le froid” – come on, people, you don’t actually catch a cold by “catching cold”…. or do you. I really, REALLY hate to admit that they are right on this one, but it seems to be so. I suppose the snotty-nosed brats I work for aren’t helping my cause much either.

Back in my bed I go. I HATE winter. When is it over. I will hibernate here until the sun comes out again. I have enough canned goods to last at least two months, running water and three small bottles of aged Scotch, so don’t worry about me, I will be just fine. But better check on me in a few weeks, just to be sure I haven’t forgotten that showering and teeth brushing are necessary components of life. Otherwise, go out and enjoy yourself, kids. Send me some updates from time to time about life out there in the arctic. I’ll hold down the fort here.

Beating the Holiday Blues

Another holiday spent away from home, another emotional meltdown narrowly averted. Easter has now long passed but I am still reeling from the aftershocks: the desperate calls home to Minnesota, the rapidly vanishing mountain of chocolate eggs, the box of tissues by my side (just in case). And my mental state does not discriminate. Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving – no matter the festive occasion, I can’t help but turn into a sourpuss each and every time. Without fail, I catch a horrible case of the holiday blues.

Upon careful introspection, I have determined that the problem is not the holiday itself. After all, despite my dad’s hopes for my Catholic confirmation in the 10th grade, I never had a thing for Jesus, or any religion for that matter. And the rare times where I have been invited to share one of these important moments with a French family, the doom and gloom is still roughly the same.

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So I know what you’re thinking – it’s an easy one, right? I just miss my family. But it’s not so simple. Take last year, for example, when I went home for Thanksgiving and spent a week guffawing and gorging myself on turkey with my immediate and extended family. It should have scratched the itch, non? Yet when I found myself alone in France just one month later for Christmas, my reaction was similar to that of stopping antibiotics in the middle of treatment – a nasty holiday funk that returns more vicious than ever before and is now even harder to treat.

What makes holidays abroad so tough is our pension as humans for traditions, and what they mean for us individually. Traditions come in the form of religious celebrations – like Passover or Christmas – or in secular, seemingly baseless forms like April Fool’s Day. At each fête, we come to expect certain things, based on what we have learned from our family, our culture and our country. If our tradition doesn’t deliver, a gut-wrenching, highly personal disappointment may ensue. Think, an overworked dad who forgets to play Tooth Fairy to his six-year old daughter, Sally. Sally is waiting for her 50 cents, and if she wakes up and no money’s in sight, there will be tears – guaranteed.

Thus perhaps why celebrating a holiday like Easter without family – your own family, to be precise – can be so excruciatingly difficult. Although you appreciate the invitation from your French friend to join him for Paques, his Oncle Pierre just doesn’t have the same comedic timing as your Uncle Jack, and you sort of miss that awful pink marshmallow and pineapple salad your Aunt Charlene always makes. It’s the little things that make our traditions so strong and without them, we are frankly a little bit lost. Add the fact that we may either be surrounded by French people we barely know or all alone in our apartments, and you’ve got a top-notch recipe for depression.

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The only way to save ourselves is to do what expats around the globe have been doing for years – create new traditions. So, you can’t go home for Christmas? Organize a dinner amongst your international friends and instead of opening presents, sing karaoke and play charades. Or at Thanksgiving, offer your chicken dinner (because let’s be realistic, there’s almost no turkey in France) to the homeless in your community. If you’re scared off by this much change, try to at least recreate your home-country tradition with the same people each year – this way, you’ll all come to know what to expect in future seasons.

With this plan of attack, instead of looking to the holidays with dread, you may even come to enjoy them. Just remember that nothing has to look the way it once did. You’re in France now and you are changed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must go prepare my three-egg omelet, chocolate Nesquik and game of Scrabble for the 4th of July.

Originally published in Brit’Mag – May/June 2010

Ride your bike for Tibet’s Panchen Lama

It’s that time of year again, folks. Get on your bike and help support the Minnesota Tibetan community by participating in the “Bike Ride for Tibet’s Panchen Lama” on Saturday, April 25th. Hosted by several local Tibetan associations, the bike ride will go from the State Capitol all the way to Peavey Plaza on Nicollet Mall, for a total of 15 miles on wheels.

The Panchen Lama, who is the second most revered figure by the Tibetan Buddhists, was kidnapped at age 6 by the Chinese in 1995. This year, he celebrates his 20th birthday. His story, like so many others, reaffirms that the Chinese still hold oppressive rule over the Tibetan state, where religious and political freedoms are constantly in jeopardy.