A pre-end of year admission.

Man—few better ways to crank in the new year than breaking an old vow: I trolled out on the ‘net. But I swear I’ve got a motive. Let’s start from the top.

When I was wee, my dad marched my narrow little ass out onto the front porch and took me by the shoulders. He spun me around to look him in the eye, then sold me on the silliest mission I’ve ever taken. He’s the funniest guy I know, and if there’s one thing he gets, it’s character-building. You don’t douche around with my dad—he’ll sniff it out.

It was the morning after we’d gone to see Huey Lewis and the News in concert, my then (and sometimes still) favorite musician. I wrote him love letters addressed “To Huey, Hollywood, CA.” and left them on my dad’s bedside table in the hopes he’d handle the shipping. (They went to high school together.) It was also my 6th birthday.

“Ok, Bear. Know what to do? Just knock on the screen door, then wait for them to answer. When they come to the door, it’s go-time. That’s when you do it—just how we practiced.:

You don’t need money / Don’t take fame.

Don’t need no credit card to ride this train.”

And I did it. I recited those lyrics into my best friend’s face. Clear as a bell, serious as a heart attack. To crickets. It’s still one of my favorite memories of all time.

My dad has character-building down to a ‘T.’ I see him adoringly chide my nephews and I want to memorize his tactics: the casual cadence of humor-laden tough love. The kids rise to the occasion. [Side note: if I ever got a tattoo…] Anyway, he’s always sort of shown me (by both whom he married and general interactions) what a legit 20th century fox would look, through a man’s eyes. A real woman, with brains and humor. I’m grateful for that.

I’m not a parent—pretty sure everyone who stops by here knows that. But, man: have you ever (as a grown woman or man) thought to yourself, “If I could, I’d keep my kid from looking at this. Like for real. I’d break their phone before they ingested this crap.”

Enter: the most vapid, least-entertaining Instagram profile ever. A fashion blogger. Ironic, I know. I followed it, and numerous other accounts (mostly models—mostly lingerie models—fuck, mostly anorexic lingerie models) for varying reasons that never really stuck. “I should follow this,” when I came across a ripped stomach topped with impossibly fake boobs. “Gauging my initial reaction to this photo—a vile gag that makes me want to run 400 miles and rip my own tits off—seeing this on a daily, or sometimes twice daily, basis could only be positive. Motivating. Inspirational. The militant boost I need.”

In the year I followed this account, however, she never said one thing that made me laugh. Never one cool point of view. Never one humanizing, relatable bit. I never once wanted to trade places. Mostly, I cringed. If I had a daughter, I’d be horrified if she saw this every morning while lying sideways in bed with morning breath, flipping through this ‘gram account mentally beating herself up for a softness around her middle or for eating the extra pita bread the night before. This dodo girl: thin. Tan. “Here’s my parents’ Park Ave apartment, cool, rite?” Rich beyond comprehension, with no discernible normal-person job, that I can tell. So many vacations. Free time to go to the gym. Personal trainers. A wall of $500+ shoes. Things that we as a society just eat up with a spoon.

But you’ve got to watch your diet.

My dad would NOT GET a girl like that. That sealed the deal for me—he’d never ask her back to lunch for a second time. Unless I’m missing something. But she just sells. her. soul. I saw it. I smelled it. The lifeless commentary on high heels. The silly praise for $1400 purses. The sadness. The only problem? I couldn’t unfollow.

It was a combination of worrying I’d miss something and a terrifying anxiety of letting go of a crutch. We’ve all got ’em: drugs, alcohol, cutting, following models on Instagram. However, something magic happens when you unfollow.

It boils down to input vs. output. Let me be clear: I’m not here to criticize her output. The output is in demand. And it’s everywhere. I needed to filter my input. Quite simply, I realized she was making me miserable. By selling what makes people happy. I felt unfulfilled and miserable and like everything I worked for and valued was worthless, in the face of this totally soulless, yet well-cultivated Instagram world.

Case in point: I’d wrapped up a rewarding day at work, crawled home in traffic, then slumped on to the couch and pulled out my phone to see this incredibly thin, fit, tan, coiffed, impeccably dressed woman posting about how bummed she was her hair was frizzy on her vacation in Mexico. Again, she was just giving the people what they want—but that’s the problem. Maybe worse than her vapid posts were the comments. These sheeple just falling in line to tell her how perfect she was. How jealous they were. How they wanted to trade lives. In an instant, I felt like I needed to save them all. Shake them by the shoulders. Demand a little character.

I snapped. “That’s it. Time to unfollow this crap.” Surprisingly, more than a few people came to my side with supportive emojis. But one person made a good point. “True, but it’s nice to live vicariously, no?”

GodDAMNIT you guys.

You do not have to read shit like that. You do NOT have to live vicariously—it’s a farce. You do not have to digest a filtered version of someone’s life who is getting paid to sell you her own being—Christian Louboutin heels for herself on a Wednesday, just ’cause, kinda like I get $11 salami on a Wednesday, just ’cause.

There is realness out there, but it’s not there. She’s painfully nada—and it works. If we let our kids think that’s real, we’re all gonna hate 2015 more than we hated 2014. This turning life’s little (and orchestrated) moments into commodities… it’s what 2014 bred. It blurred the line between what was actual life and what someone was getting paid to show you. It was kinda fascinating. But if you’re like me, and you felt like you somehow liked yourself less along the way… weed it out. Just cut it out.

I swear to God you won’t notice they’re not there… but you will notice how much less you’re inclined to hate yourself for things you gotta ease up on. You just gotta.

Over Christmas, I was standing in the check-out line with my mom at the grocery store and saw a gorgeous, glossy VOGUE. I touched it, and started to pull it out. “I haven’t read a VOGUE in years,” I sighed. “You want it? I’ll get it for you!” my mom said. I realized I hadn’t bought a big glossy fashion magazine in literally years. Maybe over 6. I used to have multiple subscriptions. I’d pour over them, seeing all the wants, needs, can’t haves. I lived them. And I was miserable—depression, eating disorder, emptiness. I couldn’t bear to not get them, like I’d be missing something. But I stopped renewing them. Stopped buying them. And my life fell into place—happiness sort of crystallized all around me and inside me.

We sorta looked at each other, both having fell into the same worm hole of a memory. “You know? That’s alright,” I said, slipping it back in the rack.

2015 resolution: monitor my input. It’s so much more important than I ever realized.

Instagram I can’t quit you. But starting every day with the impact of an incredible, mined photo from an archive of WWII photos is so much more inspiring than starting the day with impossible beauty standards and material wealth. Anyway… which lasts longer?

I dig you guys. Hard.

-C.

[deets for the cheap seats: Rag & Bone splatter jeans (finally found non-muff top jeans that fit!) + RAILS LA shirt + Vanessa Mooney necklace and bracelet + Isabel Marant booties on sale, with the money I made writing someone a website on the side—woo.]