I live in a world where my two bosses, women in their early 40’s (which is by no means over the hill, to be clear) are on Snapchat.
Yes, Kate De Brito, my Editor-in-Chief and Mia Freedman, overarching boss-lady and knower of all things creative are on Snapchat.
So are my colleagues Monique Bowley, Rosie Waterland, the women I sit next to at work, the bright and alarmingly perky editorial assistants and my 17-year-old baby sitter.
And I just can’t.
No, truly. I can’t.
I’m at peak social media.
I have Facebook, and Twitter and Instagram, and Whatsapp and Messenger and Skype. I potentially even have a much neglected and slowly dying Google Plus account, but does that even bear mentioning?
I’m hashtag tired and hashtag can’t be fucked.
I have no room in my life for My Story, for badly shot videos of concerts or coffees or cross eyed faces on public transport or for, god forbid blurry dick pics.
Do I have to?
Okay. Truth time. I had Snapchat in its early years. I enthusiastically sent dumb photos with poorly constructed captions to my unsuspecting friends in 2013.
Yes. I come from a time when Snapchat was affectionately referred to as Snatchchat, and used primarily as a sexting app.
I was on Snapchat before Snapchat was cool.
I Snapchatted my kid refusing to wear pants, and my live responses to Eurovision and the Federal Election results that year.
It was fun for me and my three friends who were on it.
But interest soon waned. I mean, there was only so many Snapchats I had in me. Eventually, my kid started wearing pants again and I didn’t have any content left to offer, though I freely admit a pantless two-year-old is content of dubious quality at best.
Of course, there are rare instances where Snapchat is used for good causes. For example, there’s a Snapchat feature that encourages women to seek help for domestic abuse. Post continues after video.