Unlike the rest of my generation, I’ve never been a huge social media follower. Neither is Rush. We just think it’s kind of silly how a generation of people base their worth on how much validation they receive from strangers online. It’s the oddest phenomenon.
“Oh, is your Instagram following big?”
“It’s better than my Twitter following. I’ve got the third biggest following out of all the Nighthawks on the starter squad, but it could be better. You don’t follow me there?”
Seriously?
“Uh, no.”
“Then we should. Let’s follow each other now.”
“I only have a Facebook and Pinterest account. I never got an Instagram or Twitter started.”
He stares at me as if I’ve just spoken an alien language.
“Say what? No Instagram?”
“I used to work at a university. I didn’t want the students digging into my business online.”
My excuse is total bullshit, but I’ve been giving that excuse so long I’m believing it myself.
“Oh, that makes sense, but you know you can create a brand on Instagram without having to post personal stuff.”
“A brand? I don’t think I have a brand. I’m a physical therapist by day and a bad karaoke singer by night.”
“A lot of therapists have a brand. You could have your own You Tube channel describing different PT techniques and modalities. You could help current PT students. You could be a celebrity PT and take pics with all the players to build up your credibility.”
“Wow, you’re really into this.”
“You have to be these days if you want to stay relevant.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“You’ll get used to it. How about I help you set up your Insta one day after dinner? I can even help you plan your first five posts. It will be easy.”
“Let me think about it.”
“Sure,” he says, but I can tell he was hoping I’d jump at his offer.
Tiger seems really invested in the type of self-promotion that is totally understandable for someone in his position, but it’s just not my jam.
A member of the publicity staff for the organization throwing the event approaches us at our seats.
“Ready for the group photo, Tiger?”
“Want to take it with me, Mia?”
The publicist looks at me and instantly I know that’s not the picture she’s hoping for. I’m a nobody.
“You go ahead. I don’t want to steal your thunder,” I jest.
“You’re right,” he chuckles in response. “You’re too gorgeous for your own good.”
While Tiger takes his photos, I scarf down a hot dog and half of a Dr. Pepper. Rush would be appalled, but it tastes damn good to eat some junk for once.
After the photos, I watch Tiger take a few selfies with some celebrity participants and a few kids who are spectators. He’s personable and polite and has the whole thing down to a science. He’s nothing like Rush, who can barely crack a smile for a fan and who’s severely uncomfortable with notoriety.
And who’s someone I sorely miss right now.
