The Sunburn State
A tale of social media, jealousy, and the sun's callous indifference.
Florida; where the white man goes to burn.
Every spring — or late winter — there comes a particularly warm stretch of days that usurp the fair-skinned preparedness that is hardened by diligence in the long stretches of summer.
This week is just that occasion. As my wife and I stroll around the streets of the Gulf Coast, unflattering tan lines and pink uncomfortable hide under shirtsleeves and denim shorts. Of course, the pandemic of overly-sunned white folk is exacerbated by the fact that is spring break for our nation’s adolescence.
It was an accident on our part. We have a toddler who is not yet two, and my wife and I haven’t seen the inside of a classroom since graduating early so that we could marry sooner and dropping out after the first semester, respectively. We’re not beholden to any school schedule, public or private, but — thanks to our regrettable idiocy — find ourselves in the thick of it, amongst the Southern states’ most affluent teenagers and twenty-somethings.
Of course, many of their parents are also here, but conspicuously have gone missing during the daytime; possibly being concealed by white wine glasses beading under the Florida sun, yoga classes with the instructor whom they adore, or at a golf course, blithely revealing the apathy or contempt they have for their families.
Or maybe, they’re just behind their phones; that’s what their kids are doing.
At the coffee shop, on their bicycles, and at the beaches, the one thing that unites these guffawing, overly-stimulated young people — aside from their parents’ net worth — is their permanent love affair with the glass rectangle intractably held in the palm of their hand.
The young girl sat at the head of the table, her face obscured by the device in front of it, performed for an imaginary audience as her family conversed without her. My wife watched the images on her screen from our table, through a glass window, and several feet away — presumably in the same wi-fi zone — as the girl made sad faces, cupping her chin and cheek with her free hand. Either the rest of the dinner table was oblivious to what she was doing or didn’t care. I’m sure they had their own devices to which to tend.
On more than one occasion, my small family of three has stepped off the walkway for some phone-consumed cyclist because failing to do so would have resulted in catastrophe.
On the beach at sunset is where the contagion can be seen in its most effective, corrosive infection. Throngs of people — predictably and scantily dressed — crowd the shoreline, each searching for the most idyllic view to stand in which to position themselves in front, to take not just one picture but many pictures — and videos. Countless, premeditated, choreographed videos.
The words ‘post’ ‘tiktok’, and ‘insta’ can be heard in hushed tones as they walk by, followed by the scent of enough cheap cologne and perfume that offends the senses to the point of nausea.
Social media, contrary to the way it was used at its inception, has successfully inverted the interaction it has with the user. It’s hard to ascertain what is the primary existence any longer. Real life so greatly mimics the small squares on the screen or the seconds-long videos swiped through so eagerly, that it suggests that it’s no longer the ‘real McCoy’ as it were.
The superseding directive isn’t the tangible, real-world experience but the one taking place in the ones-and-zeroes algorithmic dystopia we call the internet. Outfits are chosen not for their practicality or first-person aesthetic but for how they might come across to their followers or trigger the always unintentional ‘thirst traps.’ Hours are wasted practicing, posing, and performing.
When we were in Paris a few years ago, the scene in front of the Louvre was exactly this. Influencers and anonymous users alike posed in front of the glass pyramid. Bonus points were awarded if you had an extra talent or bit of entertainment that could be offered. Balancing acts, singers, rudimentary acrobatics, and dancers all took turns in front of the expansive museum all chasing a very literal fifteen seconds of fame.
It’s depressing to say how far the bar has fallen in only a few years. No backflips or stunts were taking place on the white sands as the sun dipped into the Gulf. Now, it’s nothing but sex appeal and esoteric nonsense that would take a constant pulse-reading to understand that have conquered our free time.
As the weekend approaches, and with it, the end of spring vacation, one can only expect the posing and posting to increase in desperation and freneticism as the door slams shut on the perfect opportunity to impress, and make jealous, their peers. Whole days spent obsessing over how to convey how wonderful and enviable their lives are will yield only an afternoon’s worth of content. Tomorrow’s effort will be doubled.
Driving home from their vacation, minds tired and bodies sore, they’ll try to recollect the last week. Unable to do so, they’ll pull out their phones to clumsily thumb through photos and videos of a perfectly manicured trip that they’ll hardly recognize. As the rumble strip reminds them they still have to mind the steering wheel, they’ll check their review mirror and catch their own reflection.
If selfies and two-dimensional reenactments won’t jog their memories of the time spent, maybe their sunburn will.
To a better next week,
Cheers,
~FDA