Dear Instagram, I admit that you often bring out the worst in me—my small soul, my greedy gut, my envious eyes. I’m hypnotized by your curated rooms, perfect pillows, pastoral views (sheep included), bewitching kitchens, extraordinary experiences in exotic locations, coastal cottages on windswept cliffs, yoga bodies, woodland walks along babbling brooks, ready-for-my-closeup noodle bowls with jammy eggs, Ralph-Lauren cabin life and 24/7 achieving. I struggle with my weight, my house needs to be power-washed, and, oh god, I am so fucking unworthy! But if I had that perfect shade of Farrow & Ball pink paint on my walls, I think my outlook would change. And if I could splurge on that face oil that Naomi Watts swears by, my wrinkles might not require spackling when I finally leave my house post-pandemic. Yes, Instagram, you hit that selfish sweet spot of want, want, want that I’m ashamed to possess. I mute the worst of your siren songs of aspirational dissatisfaction, but I can’t quite tune out the call of your AGA ranges, deep velvet sofas with perky Corgis, and someone else’s unblemished life in a snowbound British village. Time after time, I swear I’ll break your spell, delete you from my phone, read something nutritional. And I will! Tomorrow, for sure. XOXO Nikki
