I learned from the Times this morning that you can’t have more than 5,000 friends on Facebook.
That’s a relief. That means I only have 4,997 more friends to find.
I had to join to view my son’s photos, and then I decided it was okay to be friends with my daughter and her college roommate, and then I forgot about it for awhile. Every so often someone plaintively asks to be my friend, like my brother or Chip’s best friend from high school or a really cool female ob/gyn we met on vacation in Dominica; and then Yahoo periodically reminds me I’ve left all these people hanging; but every time I test it out, by looking at my three friends’ pages, I emerge half an hour later wondering who and where I am.
So let’s see: if I added three people, it would be another half hour; if I found 4,994 more people, I could spend 832 hours immersed in their lives, which would take a little over a month if I never slept.
If you look at my Facebook page, which you won’t be able to because you’re not my friend, you’ll see two pathetic little comments on my wall (I’m still not really sure what my wall is) from my daughter’s college roommate, wishing me a happy birthday and, one year later, another happy birthday, commenting that no one else had written anything on my wall in between.
But I think, with apologies to my brother and Curtis and Carol, I’ll just keep it that way.