According to Social Media (for most of us):

We have (at least) 500-1,000 friends or followers.

We have never taken a bad picture (unless a “friend” tags an unapproved shot. In that case, the picture is deleted and the friend “unfriended”).

Family vacations are filled with nothing but laughter, delicious food, and perfect weather.

Our children make straight As and never talk back. They are star athletes, self-taught musicians, blindingly attractive, adored by everyone, and have never gone through an awkward phase.

We feed our family organic fruits and vegetables, cook gourmet meals, and eat together at least three times a week. In some cases, we post pictures of said meals to prove it.

We are cool enough to be friends with our teenager’s friends. That’s not spying.

We are way cooler than our parents were!

Never more beautiful than when pregnant.

Marriage is perfect and even after all this time, he/she still gives you butterflies.

The house is always meticulous.

Forty is the new 30 and thanks to brilliant plastic surgeons and dermatologists 50 is also the new 30.

We either think the Kardashians are a disgrace to humanity or we “have no idea” who they are.

We nail every TikTok challenge.

And according to social media, because I’m a wannabe writer some assume I draw inspiration for writing from the morose writings of Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf and Emily Bronte’.

In reality (for me):

Besides my brothers and sisters, there’s only a handful of people who will tell me if I have a piece of spinach in my teeth. Ironically, those same people would also let me talk to a group of people with that same piece of spinach in my teeth just to get a laugh.

Having my picture taken creates so much internal anxiety, I would gladly spearhead a bill that would require a license and background check before one can purchase a camera.

When our kids were small, our family vacations were filled with kids complaining, overpriced food, and sand … everywhere. Until our kids were older, we changed the name of these little jaunts to family trips. Now that they are older and know better than to complain about not wanting to wake up early to leave, we are back to calling them family vacations.

Straight As as a young student doesn’t automatically spell success as an adult any more than memorizing a Julia Child cookbook will make you an award-winning chef. Plus, it’s more important to teach our kids to like themselves before worrying about who does or does not like them.

Gourmet cooking is a time suck, and if eating Ball Park food on the bleachers counts as family mealtime, my family has been doing that for years.

My kids don’t want to be our friend, follower or fan and their friends don’t even use the account they’ve friended you on.

I could care less if a smart alec, little twit thinks I’m cool, I know I am!

I gained 80 pounds when I was pregnant.

While my husband makes me happy on most days, there’s at least 10 times a year I’d gladly trade him for a housekeeper.

No matter how much Botox or filler I get, I’m still 46. I still feel 46. I still look 46. If 40 is the new 30, is 80 the new 70? 90 the new 80? 40 is 40 and 30 is 30, get used to it!

The Kardashians, The Real Housewives, 90 Day Fiancé…I never feel more normal than when I catch one of these shows while channel surfing.

I don’t know how TikTok works. I don’t care how TikTok works. I don’t watch the videos. I don’t have the app. A few years ago, I actually did know about the Harlem Shake and Gangnam Style before my kids. But that was only because I worked in an office full of twentysomethings.

I really am a wannabe writer however, I prefer the less serious musings of Carol Burnett, Lucille Ball, Amy Sedaris and of course my favorite, Erma Bombeck. Besides, laughter can drown out the negative dialogue in your head.

Social media has its place but, instead of friend, follower, or fan, I’d much rather you call me the other F word, FUNNY!

Telling Tales is written by Wilson County’s Becky Andrews and Angel Kane. This column is Becky’s.

Telling Tales is written by Wilson County's Becky Andrews and Angel Kane. This column is Becky's.

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