“What’s the Facebook that fades?”
Familiar as I am with trying to follow my mother’s somewhat erratic train of thought, this one, in particular, threw me.
“The… sorry… the Facebook that fades?” I repeated slowly.
“Don’t look at me like I’ve ten heads. Just tell me,” she demanded.
Staring straight ahead, I tried to visualise a social media page that fades, and then the penny dropped.
“Snapchat?” I ventured.
“That’s the one!” she beamed. “The kids are mad for it. Are you on it?”
The woman – who thinks I should work for Google because I know how to turn off our router – stared at me beseechingly.
She waited for me to tell her all about this magic fading Facebook so she could commit the information to memory for ten minutes before forgetting we ever had the conversation.
And I couldn’t let her down.
“Yeah Mam, I’m on it. All the time. Love it. Can’t get enough. Bye now. Have to go snappin’ and chattin’. Laters.”
I’m not on Snapchat.
And this is because I’m 29, and must resign myself to the notion that Snapchat is for kids… or people with much more patience than me.
I have officially mastered all the social media sites I’ll ever need to, and I’m just gonna have to live without this one.
Don’t get me wrong; I tried, alright.
Oh, I downloaded it, and I made some pals, and I got random photos of people with dogs' ears on their heads, and then I deleted it.
Because… what the hell?
“But it’s so much craic,” I’m told.
Well, either I’m no longer any craic or they’ve changed what craic is, but seeing a photo of my friend with a rainbow over their head is about as funny as… well… it’s not that funny.
And even if I did love it, and couldn’t get enough of their slick rainbow stylings, I’d have ten seconds to enjoy it before it disappears forever.
What the hell is the point?
And believe me, I was more than happy to rattle out this spiel whenever the subject arose, but as the months go on I’m getting fewer and fewer nods of recognition.
In fact, my disdain – OK fine, my confusion – regarding the app is now met with the same face I reserve for my father when he insists he can’t work our family’s cordless phone – incredulity mixed with smugness followed by a large helping of fear.
“I might turn out like her one day,” they’re thinking. “Christ, she’s probably still on Bebo.”
I’m not on Bebo, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it.