Why I Am Not On My Space

Let me start by explaining that I’m not a teenage girl, nor a forty-five year-old man trolling for teenage girls.

I am a grown woman. With grown-up friends. All of whom seem to be touting the joys of My Space. I know what it is. I’m highly capable of navigating the World Wide Web. I’ve simply had no desire to be a part of My Space. Until lately. You see, several of my friends have joined either as a career move, “It’s a free webpage to promote your acting/singing/filmmaking career, etc.” Or, they decided to join “as a goof”. Exactly what a goof is, I have no idea. I’ve only heard the word used in the past tense. As in, “I goofed up.” Which, to me, sounds like a blunder. A huge mistake. Way beyond “My bad”.

However, to my thirty-something-and-plus friends---a goof seems to be defined as more of a whimsical lark. What the hell. I have whimsy, too. I decided to give My Space a try.

Right from the start, I could sense it wasn’t going to work. The first question it asked was, “What’s your age?” This seemed sort of an abrupt start to the relationship. And highly inappropriate. Nevertheless, I filled in the numbers and clicked on my personal page. My Space. And there it was. My Age. Up on the Internet. For the entire world to see.

The second thing it asked---“Hey, give me a picture of you!” My age AND my picture? It immediately turned into the most humiliating thing I’d ever experienced. I scoured thru My Pictures file, hoping to find a decent (yet current and appropriate to MY AGE) photo that I could find.

And then began a barrage of personal (yet boring) questions:

What kind of music do you like?
What are your favourite movies?
What do you like to do in your spare time?

It was like the worst date ever. And then, it immediately pressured me into blogging. Tell me your thoughts. What do you think? What are you thinking now? How about now? And hey---put up some more photos! Maybe some music? Put up your favourite music. Oh my god, it wanted a Mix Tape.

And then, far too soon in the relationship, it wanted to meet my friends. I didn’t think I was ready for this kind of commitment. And before I even began to answer any of its penetrating questions like, “Who are your heroes?” I was immediately introduced to its friend---Tom. Yes, I am aware that Tom is the creator of the site and that Tom wants to be everyone’s friend. But this was way too much pressure. When it began to ask me about my job and where I went to school, my eyes started to glaze over. If you want to ask me these kinds of questions you've got to buy me dinner. Call me a bitch, call me shallow, call me “too picky”---but I knew I had to break up with My Space. Before I introduced it to my friends. Before I got in too deep. I went into the profile editor and cancelled my account. Phew.

You’d think that would be it. But no. My Space kept asking me if I was “sure I wanted to cancel my account?” Yeah. I’m sure. “Well, if you cancel your account, you’ll lose all your friends and everything about yourself forever.” That’s okay. I’ll take that chance. “Well, okay,” My Space answered back petulantly, “but you’ll have to wait and then you’ll get an email from me and you click on that and…” Am I going to have to come over and separate the CDs, too?

And then, My Space asked the question I was really hoping I could avoid: “Why are you leaving My Space?”

Eugh. I mean, couldn’t My Space see that it wasn’t working out? After all, I wasn’t answering its questions. I was evasive. Uncommunicative. It’s not like I made it a Mix Tape and led it on. Did My Space REALLY want to know? Could it handle the truth? It reminded me that if I was getting a lot of spam and that was why I was leaving…well, there was a way to fix that without breaking up. Here---just click on this link. We can work this out.

It wasn’t the spam. I think My Space knew that. But it kept prodding. PLEASE! I really, REALLY need to know why you’re leaving so I can become a better provider in the future. PLEASE! I need to know!

I hesitated before I wrote the old “It’s not you, it’s me” chestnut. And I certainly couldn’t use the classic, “I just need my space.” That would be a little too ironic. I tried to find a way to explain it to My Space without hurting its feelings. Finally, I wrote, “We’re just looking for different things right now.” Click. Send.

We broke up last night. So far, I’ve only gotten one email asking me to confirm my cancellation. Of course, once I clicked on the link to cancel, it started begging again. “Please. Don’t leave My Space. Are you sure? Are you really sure?” What do I have to do My Space? Hit you over the head with a hammer?

My friend Nina thinks I should give My Space another chance. Maybe keep him as a booty-call, she suggested. Someplace to go at night when you’re up late and bored and can’t sleep. But I couldn’t do that to My Space. It wouldn’t be fair. I could tell it wanted a serious, long-term relationship. She also knows Tom. Tom’s a friend of hers. And she swears that Tom won’t act weird towards me now that My Space and I broke up. I hope not. I have nothing against Tom. And if I saw him in a chat room somewhere and he said hi, sure, I’d say hi back. No hard feelings.

It’s been almost 24 hours now, and I haven’t heard a peep from My Space. I hope it realized it wasn’t meant to be. I hope it's moved on. But it’s still got all my contact information. God, I hope I don’t have to change my email over this. But I don’t think it’s the stalker type. Didn’t get that vibe. In fact, it was nothing but a gentleman. Which can only mean that six months from now, I’ll run into My Space online somewhere and it’ll be looking pretty darn good.