Who do I have to sleep with to get a “like?”
Just when I thought my social media skills couldn’t get any worse, Timeline arrived on my Facebook page.
Timeline is like a guy at a bar who can’t take a hint; the new format has moved in and taken over all the conversation and I can’t get rid of it.
Timeline isn’t my only issue on Facebook. I also have trouble understanding how to edit those embarrassing pictures I uploaded when I was not being “yogic,” which usually involved alcohol and/or my middle finger.
The biggest problem I currently have is a low number of “likes” on my professional page. Of course I wouldn’t take this personally, except that it is sort of about me! No matter how many times my mother keeps clicking it, “The Yogi Muse” hovers at 250 “likes.”
I looked around and noticed that a lot of other yogis have a low number too, except for this one girl who has pink hair, a hula hoop, her legs over her head, and nothing else on. She has a lot of likes.
Another problem I have is trying to figure out if it doesn’t happen on Facebook, then did it happen at all?
I went to a yoga workshop where cameras were banned and nobody was allowed to post pictures. OMG! Everyone was having withdrawal. One girl was crying and saying things like, “What is my purpose in life?” Okay, I made that part up.
But I do have to tell you that it’s very awkward to be in Prasarita Padottanasana in white pants and hear, “This will look great on Facebook, click.” Come on people, I am a real brunette!
But back to the biggest social challenge facing yogis today, and it’s not factory farmed animals or to be vegan or gluten-free. It’s how to increase your “likes” on your Facebook page. Because a low number is professional suicide if you want to sell retreats and workshops, or have anyone show up at your classes.
Furthermore, if you want to be an ambassador and promote things like Luon pants and festivals, you need a number close to 5,000. I am not kidding! Therefore, at 250 “likes” I am still just an Ambassador of Quan.
So how do yogis up their number?
Lately I’ve been posting super-sexy yoga pictures of myself in the hope that someone finds a 51 year old mother of two sexy enough to click “like.” Apparently, it’s not working. Insert photo here. If a photo does not pop up, it’s because I haven’t found a super-sexy photo of me yet.
You could also click on everyone that Facebook suggests you should be friends with, but doesn’t it feel kind of… desperate? And do I really want to be friends with the uber-international-rockstar yogis like Shiva Rea?
In fact, I tried to be friends with Shiva Rea. A few years ago I took her class and went to thank her, but she was surrounded by her security team of very cute smallish men in tight pants. I take it these were her “real” friends.
I am friends, however, with Baron Baptiste. I don’t know what possessed me to click on his page except that the last time I practiced with him, he stood on my back in Chaturanga. And once a 180 pound man stands on your back, I think you should be friends.
I am also Facebook friends with Alanna Kaivalya. I have met her several times and we are both writers, but the last time I saw her I said, “Hey Alanna,” and she gave me a look that said very clearly, “we are not friends.”
None of this truly matters unless you want to pay your rent by teaching yoga, or put two boys through college. So to fix this, I am making a sign that says, “Will ‘ho for friends.”
With just a few more “likes,” my mother can finally stop signing into Facebook just to click on my page, and she can get back to more important things like passing out my sexy yoga photos when she goes to play bingo. I may not be that popular on Facebook, but there’s a retirement community in Northern Georgia where I hear I am more popular than maybe even Shiva Rea.
Editor: Lynn Hasselberger
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July’s Full Moon in Capricorn: The Heart wants what it Wants. The 4 Stages of a Good Divorce. How to Love a Woman who Scares You. Our Soulmates are Rarely Who We Expect. I Still Think of You. Men, Let’s Stop Fooling Ourselves: Size Matters. To the One Who Tried to Break Me. An Open Letter to the Fixers. A Letter to my Children: You do not come from a Broken Home. How your Stored Memories in the Amygdala can lead to PTSD.