Somewhere along the way, society decided that being a person wasn’t enough. No, no — we now need to curate every step, sip, stretch, and sideways glance for the viewing pleasure of… strangers on the internet.
Take the classic “candid laughing shot.” You know the one: four women galloping like Shetland ponies across a beach, heads thrown back in choreographed mirth.
Here’s a thought — instead of galloping for Instagram, why not just… laugh? With your actual pals? In the actual moment? Wild concept, I know.
Spoiler alert: no one outside your mum cares that you and Sophie nearly wet yourselves over a badly timed Prosecco spill.
And then there’s the “Get Ready With Me” brigade. Oh, joy. Because nothing screams valuable use of my time like watching someone spend twenty minutes applying serums, blending concealer, and narrating their “signature brow technique.”
Even worse? The sped-up version, where you get to watch the whole ordeal in nightmarish fast-forward, as if skincare is now an Olympic sport. Honestly, if I want to see someone wash their face, I’ll just go look in the mirror at 10 p.m. like a normal person.
Don’t get me started on “A Day in My Life.” As if I’m better off in the world knowing that today you had overnight oats, went to Pilates, answered some emails, lit a candle, and “leaned into soft girl autumn.”
Riveting. Dickens is quaking.
But here’s the thing: this isn’t just irritating fluff. It’s not just my mid-forties cynicism speaking (though, let’s be clear, that cynicism is strong and fully caffeinated). The worrying bit is how many people are living in this glossy unreality.
The line between “real life” and “online life” is no longer blurry — it’s practically vanished. People don’t just document their lives anymore; they perform them. Every laugh rehearsed. Every morning routine auditioned. Every avocado toast practically staged by a food stylist.
And while it’s tempting to scroll and sneer (hi, guilty), there’s a darker side. When authenticity goes out the window, so does connection. We end up living for the feed, not for the flesh-and-blood moments that actually matter.
So maybe it’s not just the ramblings of a slightly feral, authenticity-obsessed woman in her mid-forties. Maybe it’s a plea: to stop performing, stop galloping, stop fast-forwarding through your own life. Because life’s messy, wrinkled, occasionally dull — and that’s where the real stuff is.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to laugh with my friends without a tripod.
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