Unfriending My Ex: And Other Things I'll Never Do (19 page)

No matter the motive—romantic, professional, or otherwise—we are increasingly turning to our social media sites and profiles to influence the world’s perception of who we are. We can’t help but tweet little lies and exaggerations, irrational in the belief that we will not get caught. We continue to share, attempting to convey one persona or project one emotion, even—or especially—if we are feeling the complete opposite.

• • •

So back to our favorite narcissistic hairstylist, Teddy. For three years I watched him on his quest for reality-show fame. I observed how he tried to become friends with every celebrity whose hair he touched. His record wasn’t altogether bad actually: he generally became “friends” with one out of twenty and badgered several of them into tweeting at him at least once, a major accomplishment for him because it led to more followers, and the more he gained, the higher his chance of success—or so he told me. He tweeted at least fifteen times per day, and no less than fifteen of those tweets were either at a celebrity, an upload of a photograph of him standing with a celebrity, or the mention of a celebrity he had just “worked with,” was about to see, or was “in touch” with. Judge Teddy as you may (I did), but he’s not the only one doing this kind of thing. Of those I spoke with, around one out of every five people said they had a fifty-fifty chance of getting famous online. Fifty-fifty!

Our perception of our ability to achieve fame—and sustain it—is extremely skewed.
So You Think You Can Dance
,
The X Factor, America’s Got Talent
,
American Idol
,
The Voice
,
Project Runway
,
America’s Next Top Model
 . . . there are vast TV empires that are built around the conceit that anyone can make it. As we share more and more online in an infinite attention-seeking loop of display and interaction, we’re all producing our own little reality shows. Who’s the hottest? Who has the most friends? Who did the
best, most original thing last weekend? The judges are our friends. They’ve got the power to “like” or retweet a post. And as we keep the tally of the tens or twenties or hundreds of people who like what we’re doing, what we’re wearing, how we wore it, how we said it, where it happened, our egos become larger, and we delude ourselves into thinking that our lives are worthy of 24/7 documentation—and even worse, that our self-worth is based on the attention we receive online. In reality, very few of us will garner lasting fame by way of the Internet.

I found a list (online, of course) of ten people (and one cat) who became famous on the Internet in 2010 thanks to YouTube videos, tweets, or blogs. The amazing thing was that in spite of the fact that only a few years had passed, I recognized only two names—Antoine Dodson and Justin Halpern, who writes
Shit My Dad Says
. By the time I finished the final draft of this book, neither of those names rang a bell either.

If there are ten people who became famous through their Twitter account, and only two of them have name recognition that has lasted more than a year, then isn’t it irrational that so many of us think that there is greater than a fifty-fifty chance that we will make ourselves famous simply by writing a blog, creating a YouTube channel, or putting an @ sign before our name? We convince ourselves that we can get famous through YouTube because Justin Bieber did it—ignoring that he not only had some talent but also
serious
luck when Scooter Braun came across his page.

Whether we yearn for actual fame or are just playing
at it through social media, we must be aware that the emotional and mental benefits we might potentially achieve from this exposure are not sustainable and not necessarily real. Unlike actors or musicians, who enrich people’s lives with their talent and whose fans grow with their careers, reality television stars are generally famous because they did something insane or silly or even idiotic. They have a different fan base, perhaps a less sophisticated one than the likes of Jack Nicholson or Meryl Streep. The fame comes quickly and is concentrated in social media. It feels overwhelming and exciting but it ends just as quickly because there is generally no “talent” to carry one’s career (and thus fans) any farther. According to Dr. Wicker, “The self-esteem boost that one gets from instant fame is artificial and externally based. It is not the individual discovering his or her own worth through self-exploration . . . It is an emotionally dangerous place to find self-worth.” When the reasons we value ourselves are not based on our true accomplishments or true relationships, we can find ourselves in a precarious place if the attention ultimately slips away. In one year we can go from red carpets, $5,000 appearance fees, and constant looks and stops on the street to having trouble getting into the same parties and clubs we were once paid to appear at. I remember in 2006 when not a day went by without someone saying something like “OMG top model!” or “You were my
favorite
” to me, and today there are sometimes weeks in between occasions when someone spots me, and the intervals get longer and longer. When you’re famous for a minute (or fifteen minutes), you think
the sky is the limit.
I can be an actress! A musician! A television host! I can be Anderson Cooper!
But then a year later, you cringe at the fact that those things seemed attainable, especially since you can’t act or sing, nor do you have any experience in broadcast news.

I was lucky to have other hopes besides being on a reality show. I had dreams of foreign policy think tanks, writing articles for publications I respected, and Wall Street, not Hollywood, paparazzi, and screaming fans. My nonchalance is the reason I survived my fifteen minutes (mostly) unscathed. The fact is that reality television, in its essence, is meant to build you up and break you down at the same time. It makes you feel like the current trajectory of your life pales in comparison to what you could achieve if you won the show’s competition or at least finished close to the end. You begin to feel like you are already famous and celebrated by a large portion of the TV-viewing public. You begin to believe that you were meant to become famous and that you have finally landed on your life’s right path. You become delusional in the belief that all of your new fame-filled dreams are achievable and within arm’s reach. I had never wanted to be famous, nor had I wanted to be a model (I tried out for the show after I lost a bet to my friend Allison in college), and yet sometime during the third or fourth week of filming I was convinced that being a famous model or celebrity of any sort was necessary for my (short-term) happiness and sense of self-worth. I was sucked in. I wanted that life. As I advanced in the competition, that external boost of self-esteem—from the judges, the photographers,
and the cameras—made me value myself on very superficial levels. It was not based on what I truly thought of myself or what I was really proud to have accomplished in my life. (Looking back on it now, it’s similar to the addictive feeling of seeing hundreds of people “like” or retweet my posts on Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.)

After being eliminated and returning to my life, I was able to recognize that my
Top Model
experience was interesting and exciting but not something that would make or break my life or any career that I went on to have. After I was through with
ANTM
, I swore to my friends and family and to myself that, no matter what, I would never do another reality television show. I look at how others fared and know that I have been truly lucky.

If people recognize me on the street and know that I was on
America’s Next Top Model
, they generally remember that I was the “gay one” on the show, or that I got in a tussle because of a
granola bar
. No one remembers my runway walk (at least I hope they don’t), nor do they remember my photos. Those “talents” just aren’t what
Top Model
focuses on and therefore are not what the young women on the show are known for. If we remember faces or names it is usually for some unacceptable behavior that would get a normal person tossed out of a job.

Not having a skill does not seem to concern men and women like Teddy, who are desperate for worldwide recognition. They are not counting on putting their talent to work to get rich and famous. They do not want to be celebrated for their actual skills—they believe their skill is
being
themselves
. This type of fame is unlikely to come to fruition and if by some odd chance it does, it almost always ends shortly after it begins.

Ironically, the most dangerous fate for someone like Teddy, whose whole life is engineered around trying to be famous, may be to actually achieve his goal and get his own show. The fall from grace and the loss of fame are tough on former reality show stars. After all, the kind of celebrity that comes from reality TV seldom lasts longer than a season or two. On the show, overinflated hopes of fame temporarily take flight before brutally crashing to the ground; they are where a person’s fifteen minutes (or episodes) of fame converge with expectations of a future but instead are subject to the world’s ADD, which quickly moves on to the next season’s cast. The term
celebrity
is stripped away as quickly—and unceremoniously—as it was painted on. Bombarded and saturated with images, videos, and news about certain reality stars, we wait patiently for the star to burn out and fade away—as they all eventually will.

Despite witnessing the wreckage of several formerly famous individuals, however, we cannot deny the power the prospect of fame wields: we long for the affirmation. And so we continue to share more and more thoughts and pictures that we would have considered too private (and perhaps too shameful) to share only a few years ago.

Teddy is now almost forty and has just under a thousand followers. Where others judge his continued tweets @-ing celebrities as pathetic, he celebrates each one as progress.

A
re we all turning into cyborgs? Are we morphing into mechanical creatures who hide behind screens, unable to spend four minutes in quiet contemplation? As Instagram has surged in popularity, I wonder if our ADD has gotten so bad that we can’t even focus on 140 characters anymore. So much less work to glance at a picture.

So, like, what are we supposed to do? I might complain about how lame Facebook is, but I’m still on Facebook. I “need” it. I need it. We are all attached to a digital umbilical cord. Jobs, friendships, education, and relationships are all maintained (and some would say
exist
or even
are created
) by way of this medium, which provides unprecedented communication tools for almost every objective. Keeping a job generally requires being available twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. When I spent a week without my
smartphone, I missed more than a few job opportunities because I was not readily available.

We have been infiltrated to the point that in February 2011, the SAT college entrance exam featured an essay topic on reality television programming, proving that even the College Board—which champions education and literacy and functions as the gatekeeper to higher learning—cannot deny its presence. The question read as follows:

Reality television programs, which feature real people engaged in real activities rather than professional actors performing scripted scenes, are increasingly popular. These shows depict ordinary people competing in everything from singing and dancing to losing weight, or just living their everyday lives. Most people believe that the reality these shows portray is authentic, but they are being misled. How authentic can these shows be when producers design challenges for the participants and then editors alter filmed scenes? Do people benefit from forms of entertainment that show so-called reality, or are such forms of entertainment harmful?

Students, parents, and teachers revolted in unison, saying that the question was unfair for those who do not have televisions or who had not watched enough reality television to be able to answer the question as well as those who did. There was also concern over whether the college board
was setting a bad example and advocating the watching of so-called trashy shows like
Jersey Shore
,
Real Housewives
, or of course
America’s Next Top Model
.

The salient point here is that reality shows have so insinuated themselves into the fabric of our lives that they are
part of our standardized testing
. Having an opinion about reality shows determined whether this cohort was going to be matriculating at Harvard or sweeping the floor at their local Starbucks.

• • •

So what are we supposed to do about the addiction, the distraction, the desperation for fame and acceptance, the narcissism, the loneliness and cruelty—to once again become empathetic individuals who can think and operate in an offscreen world? This might sound sort of hokey, but I guess the question I’m left with after thinking through all of this stuff is: how can we become more human?

I came across a few words from Erik Qualman, author of
Socialnomics
and an expert on digital trends. He said,
“We don’t have a choice on whether we
do
social media, the question is how well we
do
it.” Qualman articulates what I have been feeling: that we are forcibly bound to this technology, that it is here to stay, and that if we are to succeed in our lives and relationships, we need to learn how to use it
responsibly
. Trying to engineer a life entirely devoid of smartphones or the Internet is completely irrational and unrealistic and kind of Unabomber. Our world has been forever
altered by social media and the portable devices that we have become so dependent on, and yet we must still find a way to make our lives, relationships, and careers work
within
this new norm. We must find a balance between our interpersonal relationships and our technological ones, and we need to learn how to use these devices mindfully.