Clicking on my profile page is like entering a time machine to 2010. It’s not a place I want to be
It’s 2am and, for the past hour, I’ve been reliving an entire decade of my life. As far as I can tell, it was a phenomenally stupid decade. If my Facebook pictures are anything to go by, I spent all of uni honking my friends’ boobs and putting things on my head. I then spent my early- to mid-20s dressed stupidly, in the company of a lot of people I now can barely remember. My God, the Hat Phase. There I am in a fedora at Pride; skinnier and better-looking, but clearly having a hard time establishing my “look”.
This is the longest I’ve spent on Facebook in about four years. Finally, I’ve decided to delete it. In my 30s, it’s started to stress me out that my profile still exists. Drunk pictures of me on display for people I haven’t thought about in a decade. Whatever teenage me saw worthy of a status update just out there, searchable, findable, obscured only by privacy settings that I don’t fully understand.
Eleanor Margolis is a columnist for the i newspaper and Diva
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