Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, in a horrifying time before front-facing iPhone cameras and my general, fiery disdain of "selfie" culture, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror and took this photo:
This photo of me with the pink shirt and the pink phone became the epitome of "krittabug" on the internet. It is or has been the profile photo of every social media profile I've ever used. This very blog. Twitter. Facebook. Instagram. FourSquare. Untappd. GoodReads. It's been my Twitter avatar for years. Actual years. I can hear the conversations:
"Oh hey, do you follow @krittabug?"
"Huh. Is that the broad with the stupid pink phone in her face?"
"Yup, that's her."
Mostly I liked the photo because it hides my face and any time I can hide my face, I'm all about it. I felt super clever because look! I'm hiding behind my phone! From which I use for tweeting purposes! Other than the fact that I dig my hairstyle, I'm over it. I've been over this photo forever. But when it comes to the internet, I resist change. The internet is forever.
I've identified with this photo for probably four years. @krittabug and this photo are synonymous. Even though I no longer have that phone, even though I no longer have that hairstyle, even though I've since lost that shirt (seriously, gone, no idea), even though I look like a complete twit -- it IS @krittabug. It just is.
The thing about Twitter is you identify people by their avatars. Other than a person's Twitter handle (I have friends I solely refer to by their Twitter name rather than their actual name. Shut up, you do it, too), you know them based on that tiny 1-inch photo. I'm wholeheartedly convinced one of my followers is an actual donkey for this exact reason. To all of the internet, I'm the broad with the dumb pink phone in front of her face.
Today, however, I put on my big girl pants and changed my Twitter avatar. I swore that the earth would fall from its axis and the world as I knew it would spontaneously explode, but it did not. I'm now a tiny fawn learning to walk and navigate in this big, unknown world where my view is not obstructed by an Android smartphone, so give me time. It'll come.
So, other than ripping the rug out from under my Twitter followers who now have to actually read my name in their Twitter feed in order to identify me, I also had my own mind blown today. Are you ready for this?
While preparing my tasty and nutritious microwavable pizza this afternoon, I noticed, as I always do, that the microwave instructions include different directions based on one's microwave wattage. In all of my microwaving years (there have been many. I've been microwaving since I learned how to open a can of SpaghettiOs), I've never - not once - known the wattage of my microwave. I disregard this piece of the instructions much in the same way I disregard expiration dates and speed limits.
Who, I implore you, knows the wattage of their microwave? I expressed my curiosity on Twitter (this all comes full circle, see?). Turns out, any half wit who opens up the microwave door and READS can know the wattage of their microwave:
I saw this and thought, no. Nope. No way. It is not that simple. I refuse. You cannot just convince me that for my entire life all I had to do was open the door and read. That's complete hog wash and I will not fall for it.
MY MIND WAS BLOWN.
You're welcome, you guys. I've just changed your lives forever. Now go microwave your organic, unrefined coconut oil in your 1000-watt microwaves, you beautiful geniuses.