twitter haze

There is a fine line between social networking

and wasting your fucking life.

--Andy Borowitz

Where Have I been?

On Twitter. 

Egad.

I signed up in January—but I didn’t “get it.”  My account languished with 2 tweets and four followers (husband, sister, friend, weird stranger). 

Then a little over a month ago, I figured it out.   

Now my life is divided into the sweet years before I turned 45, and the tweet years after. 

Holiday, weekend, middle of the night, it doesn’t matter.  Someone, (it feels like everyone) is always on, tweeting about the latest events.

“Don’t these people have lives?” I wonder as I stare, mesmerized into the soft glow of the screen.  The words “10 new Tweets” reflect eerily in my dilated pupils.  With their thousands (yes thousands) of followers and tens of thousands of tweets, these twificionados make me feel inadequate—like I’ve been dilly dallying.    

I tell myself I’ve got to start dinner, but then I think: “it’s just 5 new Tweets.  It’ll only take a sec to check them.  Maybe there’s something good?  Oh, there’s a new article in Nature about climate.  Better check that out.”  And I’m off.  By the time I get back from Nature, there are “45 new Tweets.”  If I dare to get up to use the bathroom, another 30.  And dinner? If I have the gall to embark on that lengthy distraction:  hundreds.  And I’m small potatoes—in a big way. 

After years of admonishing my kids about the threat of screen-induced “jelly brain,” suddenly I am the culprit.  I am the jelly-brain.   

How can that be?

Obsessed with what’s new, whose following, who replied, who retweeted, I find myself caught up in a world of twitter inspired subterfuge: sneaking to my computer before breakfast or pretending to check email when I’m really connecting with these new cyber friends who I’ve never met but who share my obsession.   

My kids are on to me.  They see me on the computer and accuse:  “You’re on Twitter again!” 

“No I’m not!” I object, closing my laptop with an indignant snap.  “I’m just shutting down!”

When Steve heads off to bed at around 11pm he asks, “You coming?” 

“Yeah.  In one minute,” I respond.  He nods knowingly.

The house falls silent, and like a teenager who sneaks out the window when her parents fall asleep, I log on. My home screen comes up, the glow comes over me, and I swear, angels start singing. 

Hours later, I slip furtively into bed, hoping not to wake Steve.   Inevitably, he stirs and asks with incredulity, “what time is it?!” 

“Um.  I don’t know.  One?  Two?” 

“Your kidding!” as he rises to check the clock, I cave. 

“Fine…two-thirty.”  

Oh, the shame. 

“What?! What were you doing?!”

“Twitter,”  I admit in my tiniest voice, covering my face with the pillow.

“You’re crazy!” he admonishes.  “You’re going to be so tired in the morning!”

“I know, I know.  But I can’t stop!”  

What a shock to get sucked in so quickly.  I always thought I understood the lure of the Xbox, the Wii, the iTouch—the things that capture the minds of our children and entice them away from books, free play, and the outdoors.

It had just never happened to me.

I know I will get over my twypnosis.  In fact, I’m already growing a bit weary of it.   But it makes me think about the kids and this great dilemma of their generation.  If I can be made to feel almost helpless in the grip of a cyber-info-maelstrom, how do they feel?  And how can I best support them in the face of it? 

I don’t have a silver-bullet answer for this, but I do know that confessing my brief Twitter obsession will be part of the plan.  They can laugh (and learn) if I suffer Twitter jitters during my recovery.

In the meantime, should I tell you to follow me @smallhousedeb?  Don’t.  I wouldn’t want to make a twombie out of you!