Leave Me Alone, Pinterest

Pinterest makes my eyes roll back into my head so far that I can see my kids misbehaving behind me. I hate to love it. Admittedly, it has caused pools of drool to dribble down my chin while my eyeballs hungrily eat the tantalizing food and dreamy leather bags. Other times it has caused me to get so lost, like 10 pins deep, that I come out of it feeling dizzy like those kids in Inception when they wake up. Curiosity never has to end… well… at least until you see the same dumb pins over and over, and you “wake up.” 

Initially, in its early days, Pinterest got me so inspired and excited with its DIY-ness. Want to learn how to sew? Want to build your kids a play house? Want to cook a 5 course meal? Want to put together an outfit in 2 minutes? Oh my God! You can do it all in one place! If someone else can do it, and make it look so easy and good, why can’t you? Everyone and their kid looks so happy. Even the food looks happy.

I got trapped in what I like to call, “Pin-ception.” Or Deception. Whatevs. 

Here’s what happened:

1. Pinterest lead me to believe that a kid’s birthday party was only worth having if you had an elaborate Disney themed table, covered completely with glass jars of all different kinds of vintage candy, a creative photo booth backdrop to take pictures with all your J. Crew-ly dressed children, at least two decorative tiers of show-stopping cupcakes, and one exquisite, professionally made birthday cake that Mariah Carey would showcase at her twins’ party. And I was like, um, that’s a lie.

2. Pinterest lead me to believe that the only way my house was worthy of photographing (or uh, living in), was only if there was absolutely nothing in it, except for maaaybe: a sleek couch with coordinating-but-mismatched patterned pillows and newly painted walls in Pantone’s Color of the Year. Oh, and an chic, modern, probably moroccan rug, and a lamp that not only gives off environmentally correct light but was once a bell jar or has been bent by Arnold Schwarchengger to arch over a lux, cashmere blanket on that stupid uncomfortable couch. If you don’t have fresh flowers placed perfectly on top of design-y books that you never read, a giant plant, or some sort of cut branches in an oddly shaped clay vase, forget it. Do not take a picture of your lived in living space. No one wants to see it. 

God forbid, a picture of your living room with your kids tower of diapers in the corner shows up in someone’s “Dream Home!” board. Really? I mean, no one wants a picture of my living room with the holes and scratches on the walls, gouges in my floors, wrinkled drapes, day-old dishes, or scattered remote controls? ‘Cause that’s how we live, bitches. That’s how we all live. 

(Sorry for the profanity… I got a bit emotional there.) 

3. Pinterest lead me to believe that in order to be in “style,” I have to wear chevron infinity scarves with a blazer and it’s sleeves rolled up like I’m in denial about how warm I actually am. If my outfit can’t lay flat on the floor, turned up at odd angles (seriously, no ones body can bend like that, not even Beckham’s or Gumby’s), with matching accessories that somehow fell perfectly next to them, then I shouldn’t leave the house.  All hell will break lose if my thighs actually touch and I don’t wear sky high heels with my baggy boyfriend jeans. If my hair isn’t coifed, with the perfect beach wave and doesn’t touch my butt, and my makeup isn’t sprayed on my face perfectly like a clown at a kids birthday party, then clearly, I am not doing something right. If my nails aren’t beautiful masterpieces that deserve to be displayed in museum exhibits, and my purses didn’t cost as much as a car, then I am definitely not a woman. What. Is. Going. On. 

Ugh. And oh man, with the advertising now… If I’m not wearing frumpy Uggs with black tights and a North Face jacket with a plastic looking Michael Kors bag hanging from my shoulder, while Coach sunglasses precariously pretend to my be headband, I’m not worthy of anyone’s acceptance. I know I may be touching a nerve with some of you on that last one, but guys, let’s work on originality! Myself, included for sure. 

4. Don’t get me started on all the food pins that glisten with their own foody sweatiness and microscopic grains. OMG. Deliciousness. Stay away from Pinterest if you are hungry. 

5. Or how about the “1000 ways to keep a toddler busy.” I can’t. I refuse. You guys. You know we are on Pinterest to entertain ourselves. How about “1000 Ways To Entertain Yourself and Your Kids When You Are Sick Of Each Other” or “How Not To Feel Guilty When Your Kid Plays With An Ipad All Day.” 

6. All the DIY stuff? We’ve all seen the “Epic Pinterest Fails.” So good and entertaining…

Which lead me to this: I created a secret board called “I Tried It and It Sucked” with detailed descriptions of pins I’ve tried, what went wrong, and just how much it sucked. And after quite a few of those, I gave up on Pinterest. Or really, I got what we shall henceforth call… Pin-Burn. Some straight up Pinterest burn out for the average American Pinterest addict. We’ve all been there with internet stuff (oh Facebook…) at some point. And we’ve probably all just shut it down with a heavy sigh, and walked away for a while.

I love Pinterest for the creativity it ignites, and the for the empowering feeling that I too, can make and have whatever I dream up. However, there are times for me that it creates a world of jealousy like no place else, and I get sucked in so easily. It opens the doors to envy and greed. It allows me to virtually hoard and collect. Pinterest is a door that, man, it’s hard to close, because it’s all just so sparkly, and shiny, and glittery… and wait, was that a unicorn?

I want to boycott it, really I do. I’m often guilty of all that stuff I mentioned earlier. But I can’t, so for now I can appreciate and be aware of Pinterest for what it is: A form of entertainment. And also, as a really great way to send hints to my husband around anniversaries, holidays, birthdays.

Plus, I have Pinterest to thank for all the things I can now make with Rice Krispies.