Instagram is more strenuous than a marathon. And 69 position!

You can call me a boomer. So I still haven’t managed to delete Facebook. Even worse, I’m there every day getting annoyed by other boomers who are angry about this and that. So basically about everything. Shit new traffic rules on Langstrasse.

Shit politicians. Damn media. Damn bike thieves. Shit people who put old furniture in front of the door, shitty SBB, ZVV, VBZ, pharmaceutical industry, you name it.

I am passive about it myself. So on the keyboard. In my head I’m railing against the gamblers.

It was similar on Instagram until recently. I’m working on it, scrolling through the application every few days, putting my phone away and moving on with my life. Nothing really affects me. Or rather, it didn’t.

Now everything is different.

On the one hand, the reason: Hugo, the receptionist at the sports studio, where I sometimes go more, sometimes less.

The reason, on the other hand: I discovered Instastories.

It started like this: After Hugo and I had been flirting at the reception for weeks, he sent me a follow request on Instagram. And so I threw myself into misery. Hugo really put the pressure on me. If handsome Hugo wants to follow me, I have to deliver.

That’s why I first made an Instastory. Not good. Just everything. Random shit.

Once the thing was online, I was online all the time. Every few minutes I checked to see who had viewed my very first Instastory.

And who responds to it. Heart emojis there, thumbs up there. In between a few “WTFs!?” from friends.

And Sandro? He’s having fun. He is not afraid of Hugo. He doesn’t need it either. I don’t want to go with Hugo. I don’t even want to sleep with him. But I want our receiving flirt to continue for a while. So I have to stay exciting. So Instagram stories. So stress. Busy. Fomo. Nonsense.

In fact, Hugo is in the top ten to view my story. No response from him. Okay, he’s disappointed. Shit. I have to deliver more. I’m watching what feels like a thousand Instastories. Need inspiration. Can’t find any. Not good.

Meanwhile, Hugo’s Instagram account is cool. Beautiful pictures. More art than amateur stuff. The pressure is increasing. Do I have to be funny? Cool? Artistic? What does my Instastories self look like? And why do I hate it before I even finish it?

I talk to my friends. Those who are still single can understand my struggle extremely well. They are in love with everyone who follows them. Moreover, I’m learning, it’s no longer a matter of whether someone responds to messages or not: today’s benchmark is Instagram. Does he watch every story? When will he see her? Does he respond? This is the new currency.

I decide I don’t want to play. Hugo has to find someone else if he wants Instastories. I’m not Anja Zeidler. And what are they all called?

A few days later I meet Hugo at the reception. He laughs, I smile, our hands touch for half a second longer than it takes to hand over the Tüechli. There is so much more fun and play in this half second than in any children’s surprise. And in every Insta story.

No regrets, Mark Zuckerberg and brethren.