When we were first looking for homes, we thought we would get a fixer upper. It didn’t take long for us to decide a fixer upper was not the best option for two busy people in their twenties. It also didn’t take long for us to realize that no matter what house you buy, it will be a fixer upper in some sense if you want to make it your own. Unless you build the home yourself and pick everything from the paint in each room to the water faucets in the bathrooms, you will be making changes to the home and “fixing it up”.
Going through my Instagram I realized that I really overestimate the attention span and the desires of my friends and family. Much like this blog, my Instagram goes in spurts. I get wrapped up with work, life, and my couch and forget to post and engage with others. Suddenly I decide “hey, let’s do something with this” and pick it back up momentarily.
Today I picked Instagram back up. (I mean, kind of. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.)
I was bored and decided to take a gander over to the “Connect” portion that shows you all your Facebook friends and contacts that are also on Instagram. I found a few old high school friends and almost followed them, but I didn’t.
First I did what any rational human being does, and went through my entire Instagram feed to see if there was anything embarrassing that I would prefer they didn’t see. I checked to make sure there wasn’t anything that would show I am anything other than the ZOMG TOTES put together pseudo-adult I pretend to be.
Shocking no one, there was plenty that needed to be deleted.
This wasn’t a lame attempt to impress my long lost friends or erase embarrassing memories. I mean, I guess you could say it started that way. But it ended as a wake up call that not everyone needs to see what the sky looks like today because they too have windows and eyes. Not everyone needs to see the blurry picture of my mediocre lunch, they’re eating their own. I deleted at least a dozen pictures that were so blurry I couldn’t even make out what they actually were. I deleted some photos that wouldn’t make sense to anyone other than myself and the person in them, like the picture of Ryan driving a Uhaul. It was, again, blurry. But it also didn’t have a caption. It’s almost as if I just impulsively loaded pictures onto Instagram without thinking about the feeds they would be invading, treating Instagram like my own personal camera roll. I deleted at least 50 pictures today. Some of them, like the nearly dozen pictures of snowy trees, are gone for good and will be missed by no one. Most of them were screenshotted and are now saved on my phone for just me to have.
This is a new concept, oddly enough. I usually take pictures only when I intend to post them somewhere or share them with someone. But today I realized, at twenty something years old, that I can have pictures just for me. I can have pictures for the sake of capturing a moment, not for the sake of sharing it with the world. For some reason, I find this incredibly relieving.
I’m sure my followers do too.
A week after adopting Lola, we found ourselves crying on our staircase looking at her and begging her to forgive us. We had to give her back. She was a puppy we were not ready for. We had been in our new home for two weeks, were not settled, were not prepared. She destroyed pillows, ate toilet paper, bit us, and had a never ending supply of energy. She was not the dog for us. We liked lounging. We liked being free. We liked being independent. We liked being selfish. We liked being together, alone. We had a life and she did not fit in it. We were sorry. We made a mistake.
“We love you so much, honey. This isn’t your fault, it’s ours.” We cried as we looked at her smiling at us, totally oblivious to what we were about to do. Then she laid down on the couch. This new comfy couch we just bought, and she’d already peed on. She looked so comfortable and so at peace. When we adopted her, we made this her home too. It was then that I remembered when we first saw her. She was happy, just as she was now. She was also with her brother. The two of them able to play and keep each other company. Regardless of the company, she was on a cold concrete ground. In a cage surely too small for a dog her size.
The guilt set in. I started crying harder, imagining her on a concrete floor again. That’s not where she belonged. I told Ryan, and he agreed. We cried some more, now it wasn’t because we were going to give this dog back, but because we realized we were stuck with her. She was ours. We adopted her into our family. When we brought her home and opened our car door, we told her “This is your home!” We needed to live up to our word, we owed it to our puppy.