Of course, this semiannual celebration of you on the account begged a picture of you. The black-and-white wedding candid of you dipping her semi-ironically but actually not ironically but therefore truly ironically on the dance floor could be reposted only so often or it would lose its charm. And herein lay the rub. For what ought your expression to be?
It wasn’t your fault that despite your many accomplishments, personal and professional, you had arrived, finally, as the Husband on Instagram (the man married to Mrs.—yes— 150,000 followers and counting). You were just a victim of the times! And you certainly didn’t want to undermine her. But there was signaling to be done. You mustn’t seem to be enjoying this. For you really weren’t. Or maybe you were.
The truth was you had forgotten what it was like to row a boat, dine abroad, saw, piggyback a child, put your feet up by the fire (“makes a mean fire!”) or fall asleep on the sofa beside your dog without having it captured for the account. Forbearance — cheerful forbearance — seemed like an OK thing to project, so you went with that, lips pressed together, expression of tolerance in the eyes, “I know that you know that I know” but definitely not in any way undermining. An embarrassment-of-riches expression; OK, you caught me; noblesse oblige; #ihavearealjob; hands are tied; everybody’s doing it; what was I gonna do, say no?
The juggernaut rolled on. And the funny thing was, it wasn’t just her anymore! People loved you! They wanted you to start your own account. They agitated for more, a spinoff. “Charles in Charge!” they begged. “Jerrysworld, pretty please!” Bertinthegarden. Chateaudave. Timisanalcoholic. Alancanpickle. Or a joint account … with your dog! “I’ll have to ask him!” she would comment demurely (presumably meaning you, not the dog). It was flattering as hell.
Two years in, and you were facing the Rubicon. The way forward led to eternal glory. To retreat now, in the name of increasingly vague principles like “privacy” and “having a real life off of social media,” seemed bummery. You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders. And tried to ignore the consternation in your dog’s eyes when you called, “Hon’! I’m just gonna run downtown and grab some tiki torches, D batteries and a wind machine! Don’t move!”
