Fatbook - by Douglas

Everything I thought I knew about Facebook was wrong. I’m not so unhip as to not realize that it is a social networking website. Then again, I did just say ”unhip”, so most of you are already picturing me sitting in a Barcolounger in my sansabelts . Well, at least you are now. The point is that I understand the fun and usefulness of keeping in touch with friends and family, in or out of town, at any time you want. That’s exactly the kind of thing I would love to do if I were a teenager.

But I’m 40. Signing up for Facebook at 40 is a drastically different experience than signing up for Facebook as, say, someone who can stand up from a couch without first kicking a leg like a baseball pitcher. Add a friend or two, maybe join a group from your high school, and the next thing you know you are looking at scores of friend requests from old acquaintances, the majority of whom you haven’t spoken to for 20+ years, and many of them not even that much back then. In no time, you have a few dozen friends and several communications asking for photos of you and the family. It didn’t take me long to realize that Facebook.com for my generation could just as aptly have been called Whogotfat.com.

Now maybe I’m a little more sensitive to this topic because the answer to Whogotfat.com is Me.com. Or Me.net. I never really know. But it was comforting to see a few pictures of old friends with jowls or perhaps sporting a natty mumu. However, a completely unreasonable number of old classmates have maintained their youthful appearances and stubbornly refused to allow their stomachs to drape cozily over their belts. I call these people “the ones who belong on Facebook.” The rest of us are sending lame responses like, “Post pictures? I am completely USELESS with these computer thingies!” Or, “I am just ate up with viruses so I’d better hold off on that.” Which reminds me that I really need to change the job title in my profile from "Computer Programmer" to "Drooling Carny."

But at least all of my original apprehensions about setting up a Facebook account were way off base. I thought I was going to be the old guy surrounded by kids pointing and laughing at me. Turns out there are heaps of people my age on Facebook, but most of their drivers licenses are just far more accurate in the “weight” column. I did manage to find a picture of me looking up at something –maybe a bird or approaching meteor– that took away a good number of my chins. So my profile and I are off and running. Yes, figuratively, smartass.

Just one word of warning – if you’re one of those svelte bastards wondering why I haven’t responded to your Facebook message, the answer is simple. It takes much longer than you think to Photoshop cheekbones onto your more recent pictures. But I think it’s time to finally start my New Year’s resolution because I know what’s coming next with an instinct reserved only for those with fragile self-images. A message from an old classmate that begins, “Hey, it’s been great catching up with you on Facebook! Say, me and the wife live a couple of time zones away so we were thinking about biking to your place to try out the local rock climbing! And I’ve been dying to know what you’re looking at in your picture. I think it’s a hot air balloon but the missus is guessing it’s a vengeful God yelling at you to lay off the Krispy Kremes.” It’s God all right. He’s asking me real nice not to put Vaseline on the rock climbing wall.