i only wear white when it rains

I started my Facebook page back in 2008, under duress from a high school friend who insisted I needed to see that the guys we used to crush on had more divorces than hair.

Being someone who waits until the monkey doesn’t break out into anal blisters before I take the vaccine, I certainly was not one of the first to join. But I also wasn’t as late coming to the party as say, Nana, who finally succumbed this year to the fact that Facebook was about the only way she was going to find out which of her friends were dead.

Before everyone’s great-grandmother joined Facebook, we used mass email to share engagement news, ultrasound pictures and new cell phone numbers after our ex-husbands decided to close our accounts for fun.

But now it seems my email inbox is rarely worth checking save for that occasional laser hair removal Groupon or Dunhill Travel Deal. And because every single merchant now insists on us surrendering our email addresses in exchange for the selling of goods, I show my annoyance by giving the following:

“K…at gmail.com.”

Yup. That’s my email address, Bath & Body Works. Suck it.

So in lieu of deleting yet another email from a store I visited once 10 years ago before I realized that “unsubscribe” was about as effective as the rhythm method, I check my Facebook newsfeed instead. It helps me pass the time while I’m standing in line at Target waiting for a “team member” to realize that we don’t need “help” finding our tampons, but wouldn’t mind more than one cashier.

Recently, I’ve noticed a bevy of Facebook “like” requests that have me considering unfriending everybody but NPR.

I’m not even referring to the inspirational messages that flood our newsfeed each day. You know…the same ones that your assistant has displayed all over her desk calendar in an effort to try and forget how much she hates her job. The expressions that over the decades we have grown to know, love and then tire of like a Gotye song. I actually don’t mind reading these. After all, maybe somebody out there just doesn’t know yet that he needs to be the change he wishes to see in the world.

Surprisingly, I don’t even mind the pictures of homemade pizza, pepperoni rolls or chicken wings. It’s the opposite of “sharing,” if you think about it, but post away if it helps you burn 5 of the 7,500 calories you’re about to consume.

I’m talking about the “hit like if you don’t think puppies should be slathered in BBQ sauce and roasted over an open flame” posts.

Here’s what I like: all (three) of my readers too much to re-post the photos of black-eyed children and toddlers with no limbs.

Where can I just hit “you”?

While I understand that there is a general goodwill impetus to sharing information and increasing awareness of important issues such as stopping child abuse and appreciating our veterans for their service, I’m wondering why I have to “like” this? Can we just assume that I’m not in favor of child trafficking and also that it might be too early in the morning to see a photo of it sandwiched between pictures of your kid’s Kindergarten graduation and French Open updates?

Please. Let’s all get back to the true spirit and purpose of Facebook. It’s for uncovering pictures of an old flame’s girlfriend and having your mother point out that she looks like a barn owl. It’s about conferencing with your middle school girlfriends to try and determine why the boys you once thought were cute were also the ones most likely to end up in prison on assault charges or working at Sbarros. It’s for admiring how adorable the little girls’ dresses are at the birthday party your daughter was not invited to. It’s for thanking the universe that you had the good judgment to lose your virginity to a guy with a decent hairline.

It’s for remembering that happiness is not a destination. It’s a Target with a Starbucks and more than one cashier.