Well, I tried.
It all sounded great, didn’t it? Sometimes you just have to be faithful, and sometimes being faithful is getting on LinkedIn. Check, check and check. I wrote those words, pushed publish, and then squared my tiny shoulders determinedly because TODAY WAS THE DAY. I was going to do it. Technology be darned, my deadened soul and I were going to join the ranks of suit-and-tied-people everywhere that have been browbeaten into submission, and wear the LinkedIn badge of shame. Big Brother was watching, and I was going to make him proud! A grin danced across my face as I thought about how surprised and excited Kellan would be when he got home, given that he’d been pleading with me to take the plunge for approximately two years.
Also, I am an exceptionally horrific gift-giver, and his birthday is coming up. I figured the timing couldn’t hurt.
Now, we’ve established that technology and I are not amigos. Kellan has long since given up attempting to teach me how to work our DVR because the launch codes to every missile America has tucked away are less complex than figuring out how to record How I Met Your Mother. I have better things to do with my time than push a zillion buttons and pray to the sweet baby Jesus that I don’t miss another episode.
Back to LinkedIn. I decided that given the fact that I have a Facebook profile [though truthfully, much to my protest one of my college roommates set it up for me], I could certainly handle setting up a LinkedIn profile. I mean, how hard could it be?
LITTLE DID I KNOW. Fifteen minutes and more than a few choice words later, I had accidentally invited 163 unfortunate, unsuspecting people to be my friend—a midday inbox surprise that had to be about as charming as finding a band aid in your burrito.
I was mortified. I mean, I’d agreed to create a profile but I certainly didn’t want FRIENDS! At least not without buying them a drink or two, first. Some witty banter, maybe an appetizer… and yet suddenly, I was that girl cozying up to people who I haven’t spoken to in years-or in some cases, ever. I felt all HEY WOULD YOU LIKE TO BUY SOME GIRLSCOUT COOKIES?!, only there was nary a Think Mint in sight and thus, nothing redeeming about the whole sorry disaster. Please keep in mind that you’re talking to the girl that once tried to defriend every person on Facebook that had ever tried to sell her something from Mary Kay. Live and let live, people!
Without my knowing consent, I suddenly found myself LinkedIn friends with my car insurance agent, an ex-boyfriend’s grandma, and a rather suspect fifty-something man that once stalked the interwebs for my email address and used it to ask me on a date to the Golden Corral. And that was just the unfortunate beginning.
By the time Kellan got home, I had straight-up crazy eyes. Have you ever seen the look on a Doberman pincher’s face right before he rips the hind quarters off a rabbit? Add in just a touch of rabies, and you’ve got the general idea. [I am lovely to come home to.] I mean, clearly this was HIS FAULT. Happy freaking birthday, are you happy now?! I told you nothing good can come of technology!!!
I announced my plan to delete the whole thing [you know, with his help], give up the job search and simply sell all of the plasma in my body. And maybe a kidney, if it came to that.
He smiled-apparently, he already knew, because I’d sent him TWO invitations during the course of his work day. [How? And did I sent everybody two? I can’t think about it. I just can’t.] Honey. Let me help you.
This is a public service announcement: If you get a LinkedIn invitation from me over the next forty years, please delete it. Thank you, and good day.