Why aren’t you on Facebook?

My girl friend has reserved an area at the back of the bar for her 30th birthday drinks. Everybody crowds into the small space as if waiting for a bus in the rain.

I’m cornered by an old classmate, one of the many I’d planned to avoid for life.

‘Hey you,’ she breathes, all wine. ‘You on Facebook?’

I deleted my online persona months ago. I grew tired of announcements about the deaths of virtual animals, or ‘check ins’ to pubs, clubs and other Time Out sponsored venues.

My individualism nearly cost me learning about tonight. One friend actually texted to tell me about it, but my new smart phone was playing up so I didn't get it.

I was reminded about it by another friend who sent me an email: ‘All the details are on Facebook.’

‘I’m not on Facebook,’ I replied.

An hour ago, she replied with a screen grab of the ‘event’ page.

Later, I’ll use J’s account to check out how I looked. Not out of vanity, but morbid curiosity. I’ll compare myself uselessly to the other guests from the past. How different and better their lives must be because a ‘tag’ takes me to their wedding or holiday photos.

I’m not on Facebook, I tell her.

I may as well have spit in her face: ‘Why not?’

I know why. My fears and doubts tell me. No matter what my status says, or picture I posed for, they never ever change.