Facebook Lent-ills

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Anyone give up Facebook for Lent? I did. But not completely. Simply, because although some might think I’m addicted, I’m not. Sure, I might post a tad more than the average person, but I attribute that to the extrovert in me that cannot stay contained. And I simply don’t worry whether anyone “likes” the random things I share. I just share. And I’m pretty sure someone out there smiled, or at least smirked. That’s good enough for me. My five-year old actually gets mad at me now. When I laugh at the cute and witty things that leave her lips and whip out my phone, she immediately warns me, “Mom! Do Not! Put what I said on Facebook.”

“Ummm. O-kay.” Status update… loading… loading… complete. Oops.

I suppose it’s a tad criminal to steal funny moments from your kids and put them on display. But some moments are just too fun not to share. Just sayin…

So how did I give up Facebook, if I’m still “present” and posting? By limiting my minutes and activity. Specifically stalking. Yes, I confess. I stalk. A few people. Don’t we all? So that’s what I gave up. No clicking on people’s pages outside the home page. And for someone who is intrigued by the lives of others, let me tell you, this is no easy task. What’s worse is that I have to remind myself. Almost daily. Not to. Because I am an overzealous clicker. Trigger finger slips at times, but for the most part, I’ve refrained. To learn some self-control.

Speaking of self-control. I’ve officially thrown in the towel. On my battle with the tiny mole/not a mole at the back of my head.

“She’s a lost cause,” Hubs declared yesterday.

“What?” I looked up sheepishly, fingers from one hand on my head. In my hair. Stroking away. God save me!

Considering surgery, actually. Just nervous that if they shave off any part of my head, will my brain leak out. I’m at the point in my life when those cells are rather precious. Forgetful would turn into some kind of dangerous is what I’m thinking. So, the other option, like handcuffs, had to be crossed out when I found myself unable to do the basics. Like tie my shoes, drive safely, and shoot from the three-point line. With handcuffs on, that is.

Wondering if anyone has legal access to a Pavlov’s electrocuting device? Yes, I’ve arrived at that level of desperate. So as much as I’m feeling a tad proud of myself for exercising some self-control on Facebook, I’m an utter failure when it comes to the fingers in my hair madness. And quite frankly, I’m considering some kind of therapy, because I find myself growing angry when someone tells me to “Just stop!” like I have some say in it. I hate playing the victim. But I think I can honestly say that I know now what it feels like to be an addict.

And you want to know the weirdest thing of all, I think the area is getting better. Like all that rubbing is pushing the tiny deviation back into my skull or something! Actually, weirder still is my obsession with taking pics of it with my iPhone. Yes, my neurotic behavior has pushed me to that level. Because I can’t see it. And sometimes I convince myself that if I can’t see it, it’s not really there. But then I find it, in the mirror, with the phone, and click! It’s there. Go ahead. Call me weird. Totally warranted.

And when I get through this ridiculous phase in my life, else risk dying with my fingers tangled in my hair, I hope to write an epic sequel to Hair or something like that.

Coconut oil, thank you for trying to slip me past those early stages of addiction, but I walked away from you. It’s not your fault.

Scotch tape, how can I thank you? You saved me many minutes of my life but you also cost me some precious stands. So I leave you and turn to Scotch. The good stuff. Kidding, Dad.

And my faithful brown hat. You are still with me. And as often as I pull you off my head and lay you aside, my five-year old gives me the eye squinting glare to remind me to put you back on. But I can’t lie, my fingers can find their way to that tiny patch even with you on my head.

So there you have it. Confession from a mole-touching addict. To feel or not to feel…Feel. Baby. All day long. Only one word left to say:

Help! Thinking a one way ticket to Saudi Arabia might be my last resort. Hoping it doesn’t come to that. Hoping. Hoping. Hop. Ping. Pop. Pout. Out. Out. Of my hair, you go, naughty fingers. Gahhh!!

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Did you give anything up for Lent? I’m guessing it wasn’t FB if you found this post on my page. Any suggestions on fighting stubborn habits that zap the life minutes out of you? Cuz I’m open. To. Just. About. Anything!! At this point!

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