My confidence got crushed. I made a mess of things on LinkedIn.
Hit the wrong button.
Boom! EVERYONE on my personal email list was sent an invitation to “connect”.
Family, friends…you name it. Even acquaintances from when email began way back in the 80s.
The whole shee-bang.
Ugh…so much for the marvels of social networking.
Explaining to my wife the reason for HER invitation, she quickly suggested it wasn’t the technology. Blaming the snafu squarely on my inability to follow directions.
Ouch. No sympathy there.
I’ll teach her. Soon she’ll have one less Facebook friend.
Once I learn how to de-friend her, that is.
Could I turn to my daughters for help?
Well, probably not. I don’t have the nerve to once again explain my social media folly to another family member. Past experience tells me they will side with their mother anyway.
I tried to UNDO my faux pas. Ventured into the foreign world of LinkedIn “Help”.
Must be a friendly place, I thought. Most websites have that button at the top of the page. Let’s see what it does.
Double trouble.
“Help” was worse than following directions. Instead of getting answers, they machined gun me with question after question.
Automated genie kept asking, “was this helpful?”
Nope. Nada.
Feeling rebuffed, I consoled myself that it was not too big a deal.
That was before I went to church.
The first two people I saw confessed they hadn’t accepted my invitation. They felt bad and hoped I didn’t mind.
Paranoia began to creep in. Are other people thinking the same thing? Or worse?
Sitting in my pew. Head down to avoid eye contact. I prayed for a quick escape. All the time wondering…did an invitation make its way to the “head office”?
Heaven forbid.
Thankful for no mention in the sermon, I escaped as soon as the final note was sung. Certain the parking lot would be my sanctuary.
Wrong again.
As I approached my car, an elderly woman grabbed my arm. She would be delighted to be my “friend”. Though fully admitting her lack of familiarity with LinkedIn. She worried that it sounded like one of those dating sites.
Assuring her otherwise, I suggested she simply delete my email. She agreed. But I still think she wonders if I’m up to no good.
Back home, I’m forced to respond to a flurry of emails…
- No, I haven’t resorted to SPAM for attention.
- No, I wasn’t trying to send a virus.
- No, this wasn’t a cheap ploy to make a few bucks.
Relentless, electronic reprimands. Forcing me to grimace each time I opened my email box.
A week or so after my fateful error, the clamor began to subside. I could open the blinds. Short ventures from my home seemed safe. Perhaps I was in the clear.
That feeling didn’t last long.
Crazily enough, I even got an invite from myself. Apparently, LinkedIn had sent another round of invitations on my behalf. This time, I was on my own list.
Or maybe I was on my own list the first time, but decided against connecting. Given the dating site rumors at church, it may have been good judgment.
At this point, my contacts may think I have a screw loose.
Let’s not take a poll.
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