Once, in the middle of a breakup, I had a boyfriend turn to me and say: “This is because I don’t Instagram enough, isn’t it?”
To be fair, I’m pretty sure his full thought was something about not being a creative, free-spirit type — and that’s not even why we were breaking up — but I have never forgotten it.
I do Instagram a lot — an average of one per day, to be exact. I would argue this isn’t that astronomical of an amount based on those I follow, but I’ll admit that there are certain things I do just so I can post them on social media. For example, this one time I spent $12 on a cupcake at the Atlanta International Airport when what I really wanted was a chili dog from The Varsity.
That just... would not have been as pretty.
I have this theory that the life I covet on Pinterest should be manifest in my own daily life. I don’t want to continue liking photos of what I wish my life looked like — I want to create that life. So, I go out of my way to add little things to my daily routine that help create that vision. And that vision can be seen on my Instagram.
I use the fact I am a blogger as justification for going to the lengths I do for a good Instagram. I am the only person I know that has a “themed” Instragram feed — this means no matter how funny or flawless the picture, if it doesn’t match the rest of them, it doesn’t make the cut.
I’ll post it to Twitter or something.
Which is why you can imagine my surprise when I set up the perfect Instagram opportunity the other night and didn’t capitalize on it.
There I was — bubble bath run, a glass of white wine on the ledge, every candle in my home alight, The Fault In Our Stars up on my iPad reader, Billy Holiday singing — and as I sank into the water it hit me; my cell phone was in the other room.
Now, normally I would get up and retrieve it. What are a few damp footprints on the carpet? But this night, for some reason, I couldn’t bring myself to move.
I thought to myself how perfect the moment was — there I was, sinking deeper into what was potentially the most photo-perfect bubble bath of my life and I didn’t even have to go pee.
(Honestly, ladies, you know what I’m talking about — it happens every freaking time.)
I had an inner debate. On the one hand, this moment would have matched my most recent post — a beautifully framed photo of a scrabble board edited with the softest “dusty” filter, for authentic emphasis. On the other hand, getting up would mean giving in to the fact the saying “pics or it didn’t happen” is actually defining my life.
I chose not to move from the depths of my tub.
OK, yes, I also made myself a bubble beard. So what.
When I first started my Instagram account my goal was to create a life that looked beautiful when I scrolled through it. It has been 133 weeks since my first post and I only just realized I have managed to create a life that looks beautiful from within, too.
I didn’t need a picture to prove it, and — for the first time since the apps invention — I didn’t have to worry about accidentally sending my iPhone for a swim.
— Andria is a twenty-something blogger living in Kamloops with her 100 pairs of heels and 200 paperback Penguin Classics.
