The other day, I spent time with a twenty-something young lady who doesn't happen to be related to me, which meant she smiled and tolerated me no matter what I said or did. She patiently tried to explain hashtags to me, without once sighing in exasperation or rolling her eyes or calling me an ignorant slut. Something about connecting to topics on Twitter (which I embarrassingly referred to as Tweeter, which would mean that if I took the gaffe one step further, I would start using "twit" as a verb, which we all know would be really silly). So, apparently, if I want to get into meaningful conversations with people I have never met, I can just toss what I used to think was a pound sign (or, maybe for the less sophisticated, a number sign) in front of whatever I want to talk about and I can engage to my heart's content without getting too attached. Hashtag SocializingForSocialMisfits. I hate to admit it, but this whole hashtag thing sounded like it was right up my alley. Hashtag CanYouSayCommittmentIssues? I can spout away with no accountability, and never even have to meet anybody for a cup of coffee.
My young friend was astoundingly good-natured as I practiced my new vocabulary. We were shopping for interview clothes. I realized quickly that tacking on a "hashtag" before anything I wanted to discuss immediately attached a certain gravitas to the topic, and folks would pay attention. Hashtag WhereCanIFindTheBestBoots? She nodded, and I took that to be an encouraging sign. I knew what she was thinking. Hashtag MyMom'sFriendIsSoIncrediblyCool. I was flying high. I was feeling inspired to start my own Twitter conversaion. Hashtag HowToBeCoolInYourFifties. I could offer up my newfound wisdom to millions. Hashtag WhyDoMyOwnKidsThinkI'mADork? I was feeling connected and hip, the complete opposite of a dork.
After a few minutes, the whole hashtag thing began to get exhausting, and my young friend seemed relieved when I came to the conclusion that hashtags and Twitter and Facebook and Instagrams and the whole social media concept had gotten a bit out of control. She told me that kids actually interlace their fingers in a sort of number sign formation when they take pictures. Hashtag LookAtMeLookAtMe. I found that puzzling; how do they take selfies if both hands are busy? Hashtag HowToTakePicturesWithYourToes. I wiggled my own toes inside my boots, wondering if I could ever achieve that kind of dexterity. Nope. I'm cool, but not that cool.
Not that cool, but not stupid either. At one point during my shopping expedition with someone else's daughter, I mentioned something that had happened before she was born, when her mom was a professional with an impressive title. My new friend looked shocked, admitted she had no idea her mom had ever held such a position. All these years, it had never occurred to her that this woman had done something other than be a loving thorn in her side. I looked at her face, which looked so much like her mother's face, and tried to remember the twenty-something young woman I used to know so long ago. The woman who was just venturing out into the world, establishing herself in her career. The woman who, like me, had no idea that her greatest passion in life had not yet been born.
When I arrived home to my own daughter, I decided to keep all my new hashtagging proficiency to myself, even though there was so much I still needed to learn. As far as she's concerned, I am still, always was, and always will be a dork, no matter how many pairs of high waisted "mom jeans" I discard, no matter how good I am at remembering it's "Facebook" and not "The Facebook," no matter how worn down the number sign key gets on my phone.
I can only hope that one day there will be a few little people in the world who have no idea she was anything other than "just a mom." Hashtags will be ancient history by then, and she will be on the receiving end of many eye rolls. But as long as she always knows who she is and what she can do, all will be right with the world.
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