An adjacent life
There were a lot of pluses to being a journalist, led by feeling like you were doing something vaguely noble and worthy. But among its other perks was the double-edged sword of what I think of as “adjacency”: the daily exposure to people vastly more worthy, more wealthy, and more famous. It wasn’t unusual to collapse in my one-bedroom apartment at night wondering just why so-and-so got to collapse in their waterfront mansion when—based on my limited exposure—it didn’t seem we were really that different.
Envy is eternal, of course. But it’s hard to escape the thought that, a couple of decades ago, it was a lot easier to be blissfully ignorant of the lives of the 0.001%. While journalists got to wine, dine, and schmooze with those way beyond their station in life, most people typically only got glimpses of how the other very small half lived through the pages of glossy magazines or television or a fleeting celebrity sighting.
Today? Not only do the rich and famous seem positively eager to tell you every detail about their charmed and strictly curated lives (the savvy ones don’t, as they recognize remaining private only intensifies the public’s interest), but it’s easy to conclude the only qualification for joining their ranks is rampant oversharing. After all, what else is there to being what’s now been rebranded as a “digital creator”?
It makes me wonder—and worry—just how many people want in on this caper. When my mum was a school principal, she once had a student declare solemnly and without a hint of doubt that their career plan was to “win the lottery.” Today, I imagine the most popular response when students are asked about their career plans is “become an influencer.” And why not? I mean, what does random Instagram person x have that you don’t?
But here lies the rub. Those successful influencers have something. A certain personality type, for sure, as well as a clear niche they’re targeting with their content efforts. Sometimes that’s superficially positive (the personal trainer posting workout and nutrition tips); sometimes it’s not (the same trainer promoting unrealistic body expectations or crackpot strategies). And aside from a capacity for shamelessness, influencers are also often like old-school celebrities in that they’re good looking and talented in a pretty specific way.
But … it kinda seems attainable, doesn’t it? And that’s a big problem. David Brooks had a column in the New York Times last week that, in very Brooks-ian fashion, took a serious topic and presented a largely privileged, superficial, and off-base analysis of its ills and solutions. But at its core it was about the epidemic of therapy as a cure for the collapse of society and community support. Commentators quickly pointed out a slew of critical factor Brooks chose to ignore, among them the perils of adjacency. When you’re surrounded by people who appear to have amazing lives and you’re collapsing in your tiny apartment at night (a tiny apartment if you’re lucky, given the generational widening of inequality and opportunity), is it any wonder people feel lost and insecure and rates of depression and suicide are through the roof?
Social media provides insight into the lives of others, and that can absolutely be entertaining if taken with the appropriate grain of salt. But it also magnifies our sense of inadequacy in a society that increasingly rates success by the very same criteria applied to influencers: how popular are you? How attractive? Is your life beautiful? Your partner sexy? Are you rich? These yardsticks have been around forever, but in the digital age they’re both more visible and more corrosive to an individual’s sense of self and, crucially, self worth. Didn’t get enough likes? What’s wrong with me?
It doesn’t seem realistic to stick the social-media genie back in the bottle, much as we would like to. While addressing the disease is always preferable to attacking the symptoms, the sheer ubiquity of digital tech (and the fact millions of people are paid to find newer and newer ways to keep us addicted to it) means damage limitation may be about the best we can do. But we need to do whatever we can. I read yesterday that a man can—and should—become his essential self as he gets older. I take that to mean recognizing what’s truly important and dismissing what’s not—social-media included. It’s a start.