Farcebook

If you thought your biggest social media concern was deciding whether to accept your mom’s Facebook friend request, think again. Being careless with your privacy settings could lead to sharing your status updates with not only your mom, but everyone else in the world (and their mom) too. Even worse, you could end up becoming a subject of ridicule on this blog (see below).

Thanks to openbook.org, Internet users all over the world can search thousands of Facebook profiles for whatever keywords they wish. The results are often quite hilarious. It’s the cyber equivalent of spending an afternoon unabashedly staring at strangers at Walmart/a water park/a Willie Nelson concert. If you enjoy the rush of hilarity that comes with watching obese people negotiate inner tubes, you’ll eat up the jaw-dropping, for-eff's-sake status updates found on Openbook.

Recently, I logged on to Openbook and tried plugging a few running-related words and phrases into the search engine. Here are some of the top results (I have graciously blacked out the names of my subjects in order to protect the guilty/stupid):

I kind of have to agree with Xavier’s reasoning. People who run and speak Castilian Spanish are generally very gifted medical professionals.

No one. And it sounds like you might be having some pacing issues, Robyn.

This is a prime example of why the vast majority of dieting attempts fail. Honestly, I blame the Big Mac for being so juicy and satisfying. Meanwhile, on the other end of the spectrum…

She would, but Junior up there already ate it. Speaking of being judgmental…

I’ve heard cross-country runners described as “awkward,” “dorky,” and “sexually undesirable,” but “asshole” is definitely a new one. Thanks, Kevin. You have broadened my insult horizons.

 And I won't talk about what I call our next lucky subject...

Thanks for the clarification, Chel. I never would have guessed that cross country is not up your alley.

Referring to your middle school years as your athletic glory days? Jeez, at this rate you'll be a member of the washed-up townie club before you even graduate from high school. 

The minimalist movement has spread to MIDDLE SCHOOLERS?!? For the love of Vibram, this fad must be stopped!

 The only epic failure here is your blatant disrespect for the English language.

Seriously, did the government cut funding for spelling instruction or something?

This poor girl never had a chance. Just look at the way her parents decided to spell her name.

What, you couldn’t get a hold of anyone on your hand phone?

I know, right? Collarbones are so dumb. What, like providing structure for the skeletal frame of the entire upper body is important? Give me a break (pun intended).

What is going on at track practice these days?

At least everyone did not have poop all over their face and hands.

Complaining about the weather is an overarching theme of most track meets. It is always either too hot:

Or too cold:

OK, I have to comment on this one. This is a prime example of why sentence construction is so important, Destiny. According to your statement, Boomer and Gage got struck by lightening after they competed. Also, your Toddlers and Tiaras profile picture is totally creepy.

Sometimes, the weather is so extreme that meets have to be called off—much to the excitement of people like this lady:

By the way, NOWSHECANCLEANHERROOM.com is not an actual website. I checked.

And finally, my favorite track-related post:

Welcome to the real world (now get yourself some real pants)

I will never forget the day I received my team-issued sweats from my college equipment room.

They were thick and fuzzy and perfect in every way. I loved them.

As a freshman, my sweats didn’t get a whole lot of use, mostly due to the fact that I actually cared about my appearance that year. I spent a considerable amount time picking out outfits and fixing my hair before class. When it became apparent that I was never going to be asked out on a date—because “dating,” in the traditional sense, is the furthest thing from the minds of freshman boys (at least that's what I told myself, although it is entirely possible that I'm just not that attractive)—I dramatically reduced the effort I put into looking cute. My ensemble of choice gradually devolved into jeans and nice T-shirts, then jeans and grungy T-shirts, and finally, grungy sweats and grungy T-shirts.

I would estimate that I wore workout clothes to approximately 80 percent of my class sessions over the course of my college career. I justified my fashion choices with the fact that (a) I was always rushing from class to practice and vice-versa, and (b) I was saving money on laundry by not changing clothes multiple times a day. In terms of pure economic efficiency, I was golden.

The problem is, my clothing habits greatly compromised my perspective on what is and is not appropriate attire in a professional setting. So when I graduated and landed my first grown-up job, I was shocked to learn that tights and hoodies did not meet the standards set forth by the company dress code.

So, for the past several months, I have endured long hours in unforgiving dress pants and itchy blouses. When I get home, I can’t wait to change into gym clothes. Also, I’m pretty sure I now understand what spawned the idea for the tuxedo T-shirt.

I have somehow managed not to mix my work wardrobe with my workout wardrobe. (Interesting, isn’t it, that “work” forms the first half of the compound word “workout?” Just saying.)

The other day, however, I was faced with a dilemma. I was asked to attend an impromptu meeting at a company where I work as a freelancer. I agreed, knowing full well that I would have to go straight from the office to track practice.

Since I was running with the team that day, I put on my tights, T-shirt and half-zip pullover—just like I would any other day.

On my way out the door, I looked in the mirror. What I saw wasn’t exactly the picture of professionalism.

Oh well, I’ll just explain that I’m on my way to practice. They’ll understand.

But as I reached for the doorknob, I started having second thoughts.

I don’t want to embarrass myself, or my boss. But what, exactly, is so embarrassing about exercising? I mean, if it’s acceptable for adults to wear overalls in public—seriously, I saw a full-grown man in a pair of bibs at Walmart last week—then why can’t I wear running gear to a quick employee powwow?

I hemmed and hawed over what to do for a good 30 seconds before finally coming up with a compromise. I would wear real pants over my running pants and then do a quick-change in the car before practice. Problem solved.

By the time I arrived at the office, my legs were sweating profusely, and the odd sensation of wearing double layers made my gait stiff and rigid, like I really needed to go to the bathroom but was trying to hold it in.

This must be what it feels like to wear Spanx on a daily basis. Christ, I’d rather just do a few lunges and some sit-ups!

Suddenly, I felt incredibly guilty about all of the times I dissed Kirstie Alley for lying about being a size 6. Having to wear spandex compression layers underneath every outfit is punishment enough for her blatant dishonesty.

I powered through the meeting, resisting the urge to rip off my pants right then and there. I knew for certain that such an outburst would definitely embarrass my boss, and as a result I would definitely get fired.

When the meeting was finally over, I sped over to the track and grabbed the closest parking spot I could find.

I immediately recognized a huge problem standing in the way of my execution of The Plan. School had just gotten out, and as such, the parking lot was crawling with loud, gossip-fed pre-adults (a.k.a. teenagers).

Judgment and scandal are the cornerstones of the American high school experience, and nothing feeds the 24-hour teenage rumor mill better than whispers about the inappropriate actions of a coach.

All it would take is one little cellphone video shot from an incriminating angle, and boom—my name might as well be Geraldine Sandusky.

So, keeping my back straight and my eyes forward, I slowly unzipped my pants and slipped them off. Then, hit with a momentary stroke of brilliance, I put on a sweatshirt, then, acting as if I was having a sudden change of heart, removed both the sweatshirt and the blouse I was wearing over my running top.

Finally, I slipped my feet into my running shoes, got out of the car and tied my laces. Feeling clever and relieved, I smiled smugly as I jogged through the double doors into the gym.

In hindsight, I think my plan was more of a way for me to “stick it to the man” than it was a way for me to “save time.” In foresight, I will probably just give in to the man and start using a locker room like everyone else.