Life Measured In ‘Likes’: A Take On Instagram Envy
He was scrolling through his Instagram feed one morning in bed and I happened glance over at the screen. There she was: blonde, voluptuous and pretty, with black lace lingerie. She was standing in front of an unmade bed reflected in the mirror. The caption read, “morning selfie.” He noticed that I saw, scrolling quickly past the photo. But the damage was done.
I don’t take “morning selfies.” I wear baggy t-shirts and tattered cotton pajama pants to bed. My nightly twists and turns forge crop-circle like patterns on my head that seem to defy gravity. I’d liken my morning look to an ape newly emerged from the womb, or a bear waking from hibernation with a yellow-toothed snarl.
I stored her Instagram handle in my mind for safekeeping and wasted no time mercilessly stalking her profile in the secluded comfort of my own home. I expected to find an actress, or maybe even a porn star, but I was mistaken. She’s just a beautiful girl who wants to be a model. She is not famous for any sort of accomplishment. She shares her life over social media and gets a ridiculous amount of attention for it, with tens of thousands of followers and hundreds of likes on each photo. Her content repertoire is appealing enough to launch her into “Instafame.”
How could I blame him for following her? I’m suddenly 64 weeks deep into her Instagram, entranced by what seems to be a perfect life with the perfect body. (Apparently, she’s always in lingerie.) Why don’t I look like that in the morning? Why isn’t my life that cool? She’s absolutely stunning, and her Instagram account offers spectators an entrance into her high-society universe. Or so we think.
When jealousy is applied to a famous actress or model, it’s distant and ambivalent, only flirting with envy; their level of beauty is a seemingly untouchable standard for the average person and thus non-threatening. But real jealousy is different — biting and self-analytical — when applied to a “normal” person, whether it’s a girl in lingerie, an acquaintance who travels often or a foodie who’s always at the newest restaurant.
My jealousy runs rampant on Instagram, and this is just one example. The platform itself, while often inspiring and visually appealing, perpetuates a need to share only our positive experiences and our best selves, while also directly comparing those with our acquaintances’ positive experiences and best selves. Each Instagram profile features a dazzling array of modified and manicured photos — not a clear reflection of real life. But for some reason, we search through people’s Instagrams as if they are.
Yes, I was jealous of this girl’s body and her allure to my ex. But after stepping back and thinking about it, do I really think that she slept in tiny, seductive lingerie and rolled out of bed to take a photo? Absolutely not. (On the off-chance that she did, I salute her.) The more likely scenario is that by filtering a moment in time with her own lens, she created a reality that may not actually exist; a reality that never exists for her, but exists very vividly for her followers. Instagram — and all social media platforms — allow you to create a reality of your choosing.
I realize that I am rarely jealous of people in real life. I admire their beauty, success, minds and experiences without feeling the deep-seeded envy that arises in me when I scroll through an Instagram profile. I believe the difference therein lies in the idea that people have issues. They are multi-faceted and dynamic, made up of both good and bad parts. They have varied interests and complex personalities.
Instagram profiles are so tailored to the point of perfection (especially those that strive to only broach one particular subject) that it’s difficult to see past the cropping and filters. The only way to tame the jealousy is to understand this fact: Instagram content does not reflect a person’s real life, only the glittery, styled part that they want you to see. It’s like visiting New York and only seeing the West Village. It’s a lot more complicated than that.
We’re all guilty of this. Would I ever Instagram an outfit I think I look fat in from the H&M dressing room? No. Would I ever Instagram a night when I stay home and order sushi and watch “The Bachelor”? No. But that’s what my life is made up of — and it’s not interesting or envy-inducing enough to share. It’s not aesthetically pleasing. That’s why they have no place on manicured profiles; profiles that do not reflect what we do most of the time and therefore should not be taken as such.
Yeah, I’m still jealous of her perfect body, but that’s human. What I shouldn’t be jealous of is the life she styled for herself: lingerie in the morning, beach workouts in tiny booty shorts, nights out at clubs in perfectly fitting shift dresses. Instagram is an incomplete picture; life is fluid and unfiltered, not a carefully planned snapshot of time.
