The other day I walked into a bar as a dynamic journalist in her prime and left as a spiritual early retiree. In all innocence, at a regulars’ table chat with a younger colleague, I suggested exchanging e-mail addresses. Then she looked at me with that pitiful contempt, as if I had just called Lady Gaga “really cool”: always these attempts at pandering to older people. “You, I almost only do Facebook,” she finally said. “E-mail is such a pensioner thing.” On the way home, pensioner sentences promptly haunted my brain: “Why do I need that?”, “I used to be able to do without it.” Better things to do?” My cousin had posted the quote on his Facebook page instead of his photo. With 15 Gameboy, with 25 Internet, with 41 Social Networks: They’ll get me sooner or later. Phase one (stubborn trend refusal) is followed by phase two (mild curiosity), and then all you need is a trigger like a colleague’s comment. That same evening I created my Facebook account. And I felt like the only kid at a birthday party who came from another daycare group. Alone alone. On the social network, everyone has at least 326 contacts and a wall full of photos that someone always likes. In a panic, I spent half the night with electronic contact requests. First to real friends, then to long-forgotten companions, finally to distant relatives like the cousin who greets everyone so ironically. and then it only needs a trigger like the comment of the colleague. That same evening I created my Facebook account. And I felt like the only kid at a birthday party who came from another daycare group. Alone alone. On the social network, everyone has at least 326 contacts and a wall full of photos that someone always likes. In a panic, I spent half the night with electronic contact requests. First to real friends, then to long-forgotten companions, finally to distant relatives like the cousin who greets everyone so ironically. and then it only needs a trigger like the comment of the colleague. That same evening I created my Facebook account. And I felt like the only kid at a birthday party who came from another daycare group. Alone alone. On the social network, everyone has at least 326 contacts and a wall full of photos that someone always likes. In a panic, I spent half the night with electronic contact requests. First to real friends, then to long-forgotten companions, finally to distant relatives like the cousin who greets everyone so ironically. On the social network, everyone has at least 326 contacts and a wall full of photos that someone always likes. In a panic, I spent half the night with electronic contact requests. First to real friends, then to long-forgotten companions, finally to distant relatives like the cousin who greets everyone so ironically. On the social network, everyone has at least 326 contacts and a wall full of photos that someone always likes. In a panic, I spent half the night with electronic contact requests. First to real friends, then to long-forgotten companions, finally to distant relatives like the cousin who greets everyone so ironically.
Author Verena Carl, 41, lives with her husband and two children, 2 and 5, in Hamburg. Among other things, she writes books and the column for us about aTolfioow life.
In the Facebook world, two basic laws apply. First: People behave there just like in real life, although programmers had to design complicated algorithms for this. Secondly, it still looks much more exciting. The girlfriend, who at 38 still doesn’t know what to wear to a party, posts photos of her clothes and has them voted on. If you can’t keep your mouth shut offline, you certainly can’t do it online. Others upload photos of their children, and when you see them, you immediately want to book an expert who will erase these digital traces from the Internet in 15 years. Otherwise it will be uncomfortable for Finn-Luca later when the HR manager googles him: “Look at this, a photo of Mr. Müller. In bear pajamas and with a diaper butt, and that can be proven after his third birthday. Facebook may trigger revolutions in the Arab world, but for most it’s more of an extension of the office kitchenette. Even animals and greens are involved: dachshund Douglas likes Schalke 04 and is networked with 101 buddies, a potted plant (also from the Ruhr area) has a modest 17 friends and likes to hear Kylie Minogue.
Yes, I admit: It got me. I’m just as addicted as I was 25 years ago to a Game Boy game with jumping monkeys and 15 years ago to internet chatting. But I don’t fight it, I let it happen with Buddhist serenity. At some point, the addiction will subside on its own. I assume. After all, I no longer hunt jumping electric monkeys. By the way, the young regulars’ table colleague has not yet answered my message of May 3rd. Must have something better to do.
