My social media footprint, unlike my actual footprint, is small and unassuming. Recently, I posted a photo on Instagram of my friends on a backyard deck. It was the first time we’d seen each other in person in over a year. Caption: Missed this. Thank you, science. Got some likes, got a couple of sweet comments followed by a comment from the spouse of an extended family member. Let’s call him Norman.
Norman’s comment was: “Geritol Gang.” (To those of you unfamiliar with Geritol, it’s a hokey, old-timey iron supplement for geriatrics).
Holy shit, was my immediate response. Was Norman being purposely offensive, or was he just a dumbass with a terrible sense of humor?
I was especially upset because I post on Instagram only rarely, when something happens that feels truly noteworthy. After a year away from each other during which a lot of stuff has happened, our first post-vaccination, in-person friend gathering felt so joyous and hopeful. Spring is coming! The world begins anew! That was what I felt the photo conveyed. Seeing “Geritol Gang” felt like Norman had scrolled down, glanced at my dearest friends and our nascent optimism, then, pissed all over it.
I called my son Jake to see if he could glean Norman’s intention and maybe come up with a snappy comeback. Knowing Norman, Jake suspected it was just a bad joke. Rather than a touché response- and I had several, the least offensive being shut the fuck up, douchebag, Jake said I should just delete the comment, which, after he showed me how to, I did.
Within minutes, the photo got more likes and comments from my progeny, whom Jake had undoubtedly enlisted to talk me down from the umbrage ledge. Love this! What a beautiful crew!
My kids are not only kind, but right. My friends are beautiful.
What I’d really like to pass along to Norman is an enduring piece of advice given to me by my Mom when I was maybe four years old and my grandmother asked if I liked her green bean casserole. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.