Ah, Facebook. Great for finding old high school friends, staying in touch with family, sharing vacation pics… And TMI. Way, way, way TMI. Especially when you’re dating. There is some crap you just don’t need to know.
The guy I met last week wants to be my Facebook friend. This was awkward. I’ve never just been straight up asked like that on the phone, the man on the other end awaiting a yes-or-no answer. So I had to tell him.
No. Sorry, bub. You are moving much too fast for me.
The sad truth is, I will put out before I’ll friend a guy on Facebook.
Why? I don’t want the dramarama. Observe:
It’s funny but it’s true. I’ve known couples who have thrown down because of Facebook. Silly, perhaps, but it happens aaaaaaall the time.
I was MySpace friends (back when MySpace was the thing) with the one that got away, and it kind of sucked. He was a musician and always had plenty of skanky chicks leaving comments on his wall (did MySpace call it a wall?). I’m not a terribly jealous person, but this got on my very last nerve. So no more.
Last year I dated a guy named Jorge on and off for an entire year and we never became Facebook friends.
I knew he was on Facebook; he knew I was on Facebook. We talked about it in a general sense. One of us would say “My mom is on Facebook” or “I saw this funny video on Facebook the other day.” But a friend request was never proffered.
It’s not that I have anything to hide. I just don’t like the idea of someone knowing all my shit, and I don’t want to watch myself online wondering what this guy might think.
But more importantly, to be completely candid, I don’t want to see HIS shit. I know myself, and I can be one neurotic broad. I can just envision the shizzle going down:
[Squiggly lines across the screen, morphing into…]
Scene: Me. Sweats. Laptop. Living room. Cup o’ green tea.
I log into Facebook and scroll through my news feed. Laura’s playing FarmVille, Becca’s baby took a dump… What’s this? Jorge uploaded some photos from his friend’s party. The one I wasn’t invited to. Lookie lookie…
Pics of the bros at dinner, pics of the bros doing shots, yada yada. Wait… A comment from a Jen Fielding:
Beg pardon, who is this hosebeast flirting online with my not-boyfriend-but-not-sure-what-the-hell-to-call-him?
I click on her photo. Hmph. Jen only shares some of her profile information with everyone.
I can see this much: she’s cute and she’s brunette. Jorge likes brunettes. She’s got 732 friends. Ohhhh, Little Miss Popular. Or is it Little Miss Slutbag?
That’s all I got.
I navigate back to Jorge’s wall. His Recent Activity reveals that he “liked” a picture Jen posted of herself in a bikini. Dick!
Clearly, he is porking this bitch. Clearly. Most likely, anyway. Possibly.
BUT, what the hell am I supposed to do with this information? Am I going to ask him about it? No, I’ll sound like an insecure, neurotic freak (in other words, he’ll know the truth). I’m not his girlfriend, so I don’t have bitching rights.
So my newfound knowledge just floats around in my head making me batshit insane.
He’ll know something’s up when he sees me because I’ll be acting weird. But I won’t be able to say anything so I’ll complain about something else. Then we’ll end the night on a bad note and he won’t call for five days because he thinks I’m on my period or something. Then I get upset that he hasn’t called and…
Ohhh, no. I’m not ready for all that.
Too bad, honey, too bad. We’ve only had one date, let’s not motor down to this serious stage of the relationship already.
Maybe we’ll go out again — hell, maybe we’ll even go out for a few months. But I’ll tell you this much: you have a better chance of getting into my pants than onto my wall.