Okay, I reinstated my Facebook account again. Did you miss me? You did not. I was gone for a month, but only Facebook itself wrote me, sending me your profile pictures and telling me that you were having a wonderful life without me.
During that month, “Where’s Peter?” was supposed to have been the subject of everyone’s updates. Facebook, that electronic version of Bedford Falls, was supposed to be collecting money – well, collecting something – to try to prove to me after I had leapt from the bridge that even I could get a social-media life.
But I’m not back because of your pathetic sympathy. Instead, I discovered that when I quit Facebook in May, Facebook pulled from my friends’ and family members’ albums all my photos that I had edited, posted and so sedulously tagged. My daughter Bethany complained that half her account’s pics were suddenly gone. Then I saw that Victoria’s masthead went from that flattering shot of me and my Froot Loops box when you’d hover over “Married to Peter Stephens” to only (and I swear it was in a lighter and smaller font) “married.” As if Victoria didn’t want to acknowledge me, didn’t want to be seen with me or my cereal box.
Or maybe it was as if I had never been born.