If it had not been for Facebook, I would have completely missed National Clitoris Awareness Week, and  I would not  have known how to survive a Zombie apocalypse.  I wouldn’t know how to cook with quinoa or clean with vinegar.  I wouldn’t have seen videos of interspecies friendships, tests on which Golden Girl I am, or the fact that a deer ran into my daughter’s car on the way to work.  It’s the only context in which ”going viral” is a good thing.

Facebook has allowed me to become “friends” with my daughter’s future Norwegian in-laws, nice people like Oda, May Sissel, and Gunnar.  People like “Bjorn” who have that fetching and unlikely BJ combination in their names, and people whose names are spelled with bisected o’s  and a’s wearing little hats.  My Norwegian friends post breaking news on the fjords and videos of people wearing wetsuits and plunging into icy ocean water.

When I joined FB the day after I retired, I searched for old boyfriends, hoping that they were bald and single.  I found the prom queen, and reveled in the discovery that she is now fat, wrinkled, and seemingly dispeptic.  I sent her a message: “I always admired you in high school! You were the prettiest, smartest, nicest girl in our class!”  In minutes she sent me a friend request; she’s been waiting for my acceptance for four years, coincidentally the same amount of time I sat in close proximity to her in the high school cafeteria from the vantage point of the loser table.

I also searched for childhood friends I’d lost track of.  I was so excited I’d found Brenda, a girl who was was in school with me since fifth grade.  We reconnected first on Facebook, then at Starbucks.  We hadn’t seen each other for 40 years.   When I returned from our first meeting, I said to my husband, “It was as if no time passed! We talked for hours!  It was wonderful!   After our third meeting at Starbucks, I said to my husband, “It was as if no time had passed . . . Brenda talked for hours.”   Oh, now I remember why we hadn’t seen each other for four decades.

I am Facebook friends with 384 people, and Brenda is still one of them.  I care about her and all 384 of my “friends.”  But some of these people I care about only at a Facebook level.  I count among such friends some folks I’ve traveled with, colleagues who have moved away, and friends of friends (of friends).  Every time I see a post from one of these Facebook-level-friends, it reminds me of the good times we shared and what I learned from them.  I am happy when I see that they’re doing well.  Facebook is a way of holding onto and cherishing the past; it gives weight to my present, but also to the 62 years in my past.

“Friends” can easily be categorized by the things they post.  I’m an Informer.  I use Facebook to review books and movies, post informative links about soaring medical costs, and share videos that will make you think. Informers can help you get smarter, if you give them a chance, but they can also come off as know-it-all smart asses.

My friend Teri is a Promoter.  She posts flyers for plays, comedy shows, workshops and reminders about friends’ birthdays.  Promoters can improve your life by offering endless opportunities for enrichment, but they can also make you feel like a wall flower.

Among my Friends, I count some who are  Blessed.  The Blessed want you to know that they were blessed by the most adorable children, most romantic spouses, most mentoring mentors.  They will post endless photos of their children, often in collage layout so you can see their babies being adorable eight different ways with one glimpse.  They will tell you about their awards, rockin’ gigs, and prestigious jobs.  They are not bragging, you see; they are just blessed by these amazing gifts, and posting is their way of thanking the universe.   The Blessed post pictures of themselves at parties you didn’t know about and weren’t invited to. Every one of their posts has this subtext:  I am soooooooo happy.  The Blessed make me feel defensive and think, well my children are cute, too.  My husband gave me a new blender for Christmas, so there! 

The Cryptic will write posts that make no sense:   “Never again.”  “Oh well.”  “And I thought I’d seen everything.”  I don’t think anyone likes the Cryptic’s posts. The Cryptic thinks he’s dark and enigmatic and that he leaves his friends wanting more.   He doesn’t know that everyone who reads his posts thinks, “Oh, brother.”  To the Cryptic I say, “My elbow.”

Then there are the Spirtuals.  They post inspirational quotes, photos of lilac fields, videos about the homeless and the heroes.  They can uplift you, but they are more likely to make you feel small, shallow, and unsure of your own salvation.

Most insufferable are the Patriots.  They know exactly what this country needs, and it’s not Obama.  They know the Devil, and he’s a liberal.  They post links from  the Trinity Broadcasting Network and Misquote News.  They think few Americans work hard and earn their keep. If everyone were just more like them, they seem to say.  They want to improve the world by changing you.  To be fair, Republicans aren’t the only Patriots; some liberals blame Republicans for everything from eczema to traffic congestion.  Patriots don’t post tasteful campaign slogans or links to credible sources–those are fine and dandy.  It’s the posts laced with anger, suspicion, fear, and accusations that make the Patriots, well, unpatriotic–and totally un-fun.  They just don’t seem to understand that we should all play nice on FB and most of us wish they would just stop shouting, for Pete’s sake!  If you are face-to-face with a Patriot at a holiday party, you can’t graciously escape, but on Facebook, you can unfriend him with a click.  God bless America.

For your edification, the Oversharer will post every detail of his or her mundane life.  As they muck about the pond scum of life, they’ll take time to post about every challenge.   It seems that no time elapses between the event and their report:  “In terrible traffic leaving the dry cleaners.”  “Ass up waiting for colonoscopy.”  “Just discovered grey public hair.”  Oversharers think you are reading with rapt attention, fretting about their little trials, that you care about their mismatched socks, bad haircuts, and stopped up sump pump  when, in fact, you scroll by or hide their posts.  You will never again know when they’ve eaten the first peach ice cream of the season.

The Searchers probably benefit the most from Facebook.  They are often young mothers and fathers who are wringing their hands about their child’s upcoming birthday party (“How many children should I invite?”) or fitful sleep (“Do I let him cry?”) or his propensity to bite his brother (“Time outs just aren’t working!”)  I feel complete empathy for the Searchers.  I remember the loneliness, insecurity, and inexperience of new parenthood.  Oh, how much better I would have coped with my babies if I had been able to search for advice and reassurance from others.

The vast majority of Facebookers are  Stalkers.  You might think that their Internet is down or that they never bother to check Facebook, but they are there, they are always there.  They are taking in everything you post, but you’ll rarely know it because they don’t  “Like,” or “Share,” or comment on your posts.  But the next time you see them, they’ll give themselves away: “Congratulations on the new job,” they’ll say.  Or, “I’m sorry to hear your mother passed.”  Or, “I travel vicariously through your posts.”  There is one sure way to bring a Stalker out of the closet:  post a baby picture.  A stalker will “like” a baby picture, even if it’s your next door neighbor’s great-niece.    Stalkers are oblivious to an unspoken rule of FB etiquette, that it’s rude to just listen to the conversation without contributing. To the Stalkers, I say, Join the party!  You matter.

Facebook is handicapped accessible; you can Facebook if you’re strapped in a wheelchair, if you’re hearing-impaired, if you are afraid to leave house. And with Facebook, you can interact with every generation, and that’s the greatest joy of social media.  I can’t change the fact that I’m 62, that I’m a Baby Boomer.  Too young to be in, as Tom Brokaw says, “the Greatest Generation.”  Too old to be Gen X or Millennial.  But anyone can be in the Facebook Generation, regardless of his or her age.  Great-grandmas and wounded Vietnam vets don’t have to exist in their ever diminishing social arena; with Facebook, they can become citizens of the world, part of the global conversation.

Facebook won’t make you forever young, but it will help you be forever connected.  And isn’t that what everyone needs?  Connection?

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