After spending the past few months trying to figure out why the hell the whole world is hypnotised by every outfit Chiara Ferragni wears and how many times she indulges in eating celery and drinking dairy-free cappuccinos, I came to the conclusion that a blogger’s life may look good but is exhausting. And before saying this, I wanted to try it myself.
I gave myself a couple of months time to increase my social following by typing annoying hashtags and creating casual-looking food compositions, watching yoga videos and other motivational tutorials on how to make of your real self a public figure, just for fun. After a few pictures to try and make my routine look Instagram-y, I realised how pointless it is to flaunt breakfasts in corner cafés, bikini bodies and all other crumbs of your life to get handfuls of likes and being followed for a few minutes by popular brands and emerging artists.
This deception is nothing but a constant attempt to impress people we don’t care about, to get noticed in the open sea of other similar-looking copies of your social self and feel the warmth of the spotlights for a while, just until the media decides your body is out of fashion and now the new trend is a big butt. And here’s to the race to the gym, girls sweating their activewear off to get the cool abs worn by that model with a Russian surname and guys accompanying their chicken lunch with a glass of liquid proteins and other chemical shit to fit in this summer’s state of mind made of breathtaking sunsets to post online and beers you’re not going to drink or else your flat stomach will bloat – and nobody likes these subtle flaws.
Here’s my advice, instead of checking the latest Instagram trends and hot words, unbutton your tight jeans, get a glass of wine and start breathing without caring about people around you posting their perfectly-lit brunch.