I shared a photo on my Facebook blog page this morning that seemed to strike a chord. It was something I found on Instagram that pretty much sums up how I feel every morning.
For my breakfast this morning I ate some cold pasta out of a bowl from the fridge with my fingers, and a Jaffa cake I found, (in the box), on the floor in the living room.
There was nothing photogenic about any element of that. I didn’t have a casually placed, single large bloom in a glass jar in the background, my carefully painted toe nails were not visible in the edge of the photo, peeking out of my shiny red sandals. There was not a single quirky, vintage, floral table cloth in sight.
I ate though. Calories were consumed. I chewed. I swallowed.
I know that my job is social media, blah blah, but it pisses me off sometimes that there’s this constant pressure to be beautiful and stylish in everything that you do. The fact is that I’m just not a stylish person. I’m not a very good photographer, I have no real sense of colour, and often I resent the niggling feeling that if my dinner doesn’t get at least two dozen likes then somehow it’s not worth eating.
Of course we all like to look at nice pictures and pretty things, but Instagram often feels to me like an extension of that hideous pressure we put on ourselves to look beautiful. Except that now it’s worse, because not only do we feel the pressure to make ourselves look personally beautiful, but now everything around us has to be too – our breakfast must be styled, our homes chic at all times, our cups of coffee perfectly arranged on a white desk next to a self-help paperback about embracing life and a pencil holder in the shape of a polaroid camera.