When it comes to social media, share too much and you're boring everyone with Instagrammed appetizers. But the opposite's just as bad: Share too little and, as Mark Byrne found out, it's really easy to look like a shallow, self-aggrandizing jerk.
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| Insta-Dick |
I joined Instagram on Memorial Day of last year, several beers into a long, boozy evening, after watching four of the people at my table use their phones to photograph the three-tiered oyster tray that had just been delivered...to the table next to ours. By the time I'd downloaded the app, the oyster pyramid was gone, but I'd acquired three followers (all at the table) and the groundwork for a new way to misrepresent myself to the masses. The first picture I took, later that night, was of a bottle of wine. I don't even like wine, and it wasn't my bottle. But no one needed to know that.
Admit it: You've done the same. Maybe you don't outright lie about drinking beyond-your-budget Syrah, but a quick flick through Instagram shows mostly beach pics, fancy drinks, fast cars, and group shots of beautiful friends. (And dog photos. So many goddamn dog photos.)
Which falls in line with the general social-networking M.O. The whole game is rigged to favor the witty and the cool. Your tweets are all humblebrags, and your Facebook photo albums oscillate between Party and Vacation—or parties while on vacation. Cancún! Fourteen-dollar Manhattans! But the other six days a week, you stay in with a six-pack and Netflix rom-coms even your girlfriend is too embarrassed to watch. There are two yous: Real You and Insta-You. And there's, like, six income brackets between these people.
Welcome to your new social-media neurosis: You're undersharing.
Remember when everyone was afraid of the opposite, of giving away too much? It's why your Facebook page doesn't have your phone number and why your Twitter handle is a reference to a song lyric instead of your real name. But all that time spent trying to obscure your identity created this new problem: No one knows the real you.
I can tell you who Instagram Mark is. Instagram Mark is a man who lives on espresso and aged Manchego and spends more time with his feet dangling into pools than he does working. (Does he even have a job?) He's never eaten fast food, and his apartment is always crowded with friends. Truth be told, Instagram Mark is kind of an overcompensating dick.
Ask yourself: Would you be embarrassed for Insta-You if he were real? Would your girlfriend think he's a stooge? If the answer's anything more than "maybe," get to work evening out the dickishness. Salvation is only a few self-deprecating photographs away.
Look, I'm not telling you to skip shooting all the cool stuff you normally would. Go ahead—snap that vintage Volvo P1800, that expensive watch, or someone else's wine. Don't hold back. But the goal here—as in seesaws or a good martini—is balance. And the only way you're going to hit the sweet spot between under- and oversharing is if you constantly take stock of what you're putting out there. Consider it an Insta-audit.
Say your last three photos were from a twelve-course tasting menu with square white plates and molded orbs of foie gras. Offset the swagger with glory shots of the ham and Swiss on rye you eat for lunch every day. Last week you were in Palm Springs? This week: the subway. If the celebs-are-just-like-us tabloid staple has taught us anything, it's that everyone likes seeing photos of other people doing realistic, relatable shit. A little bit of reality goes a long way.
And hey, if your feed's beyond saving, you can always nuke your account and start over. A less dickish Insta-You is only a shiny new username away.
