Targeted​​
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It is Halloween the first night I am Targeted. A full moon illuminates the brownstones lining my street, and the wind blowing through my cracked window smells almost smoky. I make one attempt to leave my apartment for a bottle of red wine. As I step onto the sidewalk, a little girl in a black cat costume crosses my path. I heed the omen and return to the couch.
I tap the Instagram icon and begin to scroll, falling onto the familiar conveyor belt of emotions: a high school acquaintance hawking oils for a multi-level marketing scheme (amusement then concern), a picture of a family reunion I missed (guilt), and then a barrage of babies (mixed emotions). I send an anatomically inaccurate heart to each—the most I can offer of myself since the break-up. With each double tap, my clinically low dopamine levels bump a bit higher.
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A woman I know from my art major appears: blond hair and purple paint fill the screen. She poses in front of a finished canvas, beaming, paintbrush in hand. She sold her first painting to a gallery a week after we graduated. A week after that, I took a stable job at an advertising agency. Scroll.
My body jolts. It’s not him, not my ex-fiance Mark, thank god. But his brother, on vacation in Aruba with his girlfriend. Until Mark and I broke up last month, I considered this woman a close friend. Now she lays on a hammock dangled over salt water on a trip I didn’t know about, a diamond newly glinting on her ring finger. I consider liking the post, debating whether that would make me seem desperate or mature. Unable to decide, I scroll.
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And then it happens.
At first I can’t place the woman in the photo, though I know I know her. Her hair—the same brown as mine, but professionally highlighted—is a level of shiny I have spent years trying to achieve. She’s had her teeth whitened. Her dress is my style, but expensive-looking, and hugs her sculpted and tanned body. A 2D breeze blows across the balcony she looks out from. I am transfixed.
She is me. A version of me at least, one that has been augmented to the point of digital perfection. At the bottom of the photo, in small black text, is a disclaimer: This is an AI-generated advertisement that has been personalized for you using images you have uploaded. The hundreds of thinkpieces haven’t prepared me.
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I tap on her profile. Well, my profile. My MetaMe profile. Natalie Andrews. My age, my hometown, but a catalog of memories I have never made. There I am at the beach, sculpted in a bikini too revealing for me to ever actually wear. There I am in a silver gown. There I am on a mountain top yoga retreat, clad in form-fitting lycra. I tap the picture, and a constellation of dots appears: tap here to buy the leggings, buy the yoga mat, buy a subscription of plant-based granola bars, buy a membership to an online yoga studio.
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Tap here to be the kind of woman who does yoga.
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***
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The next morning, I go to a yoga class before work. The studio reeks of eucalyptus, and a lime green Instagram handle marrs the white walls. My therapist has recommended yoga as a way to cope with my Break-up Depression, which I don’t believe can be an actual diagnosis though she insists.
I do my best to focus on the poses. The instructor Starr tells us to take one breath per movement, but I don’t have the lung capacity. I wonder about Starr’s life, what it is like to work in fitness and not behind a desk. What does she do outside the three hours a day she teaches yoga to yuppies? I picture myself as a yoga teacher. Only it’s not me I see, but the digitally-enhanced MetaMe that has been stuck in my head all morning. At the end of class, Starr tells us the studio is running a deal—a package of ten classes for $299—then closes her eyes, bows her head. “Namaste.”
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My office in Times Square is the perfect setting for an advertising agency. Neon signs bombard me from above, and I can’t even ignore them because keeping up with advertising trends is a job requirement. The second I make it to my Work Hub (read: cubicle), my boss Jenny is relentless with her concern. “Did you go to yoga? How are you feeling? How did you sleep?”
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Jenny wants me to make something out of the break-up. She wants me to take a promotion in LA, where our company is opening a new office. Mostly, she wants me to be more like her. I wonder if that is how she imagined me when she hired me at 22: disillusioned of my artistic aspirations, on the path to becoming her, full of potential and ambition. Maybe I thought I was on her path too. But this job turned out somehow both more boring and more stressful than I expected. The idea that it is all I have now makes me feel dizzy and unmoored.
“I just think it would be so good for your career, but more importantly, for you,” Jenny tells me.
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It would be nice to make something of this. To turn the crippling doubt—the infinite hours in lavender bubble baths trying to stave off panic attacks spawned by years of ingrained societal messaging that because I am a woman on the verge of 30, I should have accomplished all I will by now—into something. To make the months of agonizing over my relationship and whether to leave worthwhile. I want a rom-com edit where these last months are glossed over montage-style, before I take the leap and move across the country.
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But my lease won’t be up for another six months, my parents on Long Island are only getting older, and I don’t know anyone in California. And there’s the anxiety. The paralyzing fear.
I tell Jenny I’m thinking about it. Which is true, but I can only think about it for so long before I panic at the vast expanse of my future. Or worse, I begin comparing this potential future to the one I thought I was on track for. Before I realize what a mistake I made by ending a seven-year relationship with a man from a good family and with a stable job. How by admitting I wasn’t happy in that one, single moment, I shattered our relationship and called into question every decision I’d ever made. How alone I’ve been since.
Jenny reminds me that my promotion offer will expire next week.
“And one more thing,” she tells me. “With the LA office opening, we don’t really need such a big office here in New York.”
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“We’d move offices?”
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“I just mean we won’t have space for everyone. So, if you don’t take the LA job, I’m not sure there will be room for you here.”
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“Wait, are you firing me?”
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“No! You can still go to LA!”
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“But I can’t keep my job here?”
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“Sorry, it’s not my decision. I swear.”
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Jenny walks away. It is too much. I’m already worried about making my rent now that I don’t split it with Mark. I try to imagine the future. Two futures, infinite futures, that I am incapable of holding in my mind. I could look for a new job in New York. But other agencies are downsizing, not hiring. I could go to LA and take the promotion. But where would I live, and how would I move my things, and what color couch would I buy if it is too expensive to ship mine? I wish I had someone to talk to, but obviously I can’t go to Mark.
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I yank out my phone, caving to the need to end these thoughts. I open Instagram. Other people’s lives fly by, each one a calculation. Would I be happier if I lived like that? Would I be happier if I had made their choices? Perhaps it isn’t NY vs. LA. Maybe ski bum in Denver is an option—I could learn to ski—or teacher on Long Island. I could quit instead of taking the promotion. Maybe it’s not too late to be a completely different person.
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And there, in the midst of these other lives, is Me. My hair is in a slicked bun, a linen blazer draping my crossed arms. I sit at lunch, surrounded by friends--real people that I haven’t kept up with. We’re laughing. Outside the window, sun drenches swaying palm trees. My facial features are tweaked—nose a little smaller, eyes a little more symmetrical. The blazer is 40% off. I can reserve a spot at the restaurant. I can be her.
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***
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The next morning, I wake up with my phone on my chest. I remember that my college friend Shelly said she would be in town. I text her to ask her to lunch and we plan to meet at one. I know that seeing an old friend will be good for me, but once the plan is confirmed, I’m apprehensive. In college, I hedged my bets, double majoring in art and marketing. Shelly has never hedged her bets in her life, and it’s paid off. I don’t know if I can survive witnessing that.
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She catches me up on her life: award-winning paintings, wedding in Manhattan, house in Westchester, smiley baby and then a second smiley baby. I scan the differences between our lives. I realize I thought I would be married by now too. But it’s not that part I envy. If I concentrate long enough, and can push past the fog in my mind, the same vision for myself emerges that has since I was in college: a painter.
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“Anyway, how’s Mark?” She is bluffing. I know our lack of posts together over the last month is glaring, that everyone has pieced it together, messaged each other to ask, “Did you hear?” But no, Shelly isn’t on social media, I remember, and not the type to indulge in gossip. When did I become so mistrusting?
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“He never made you happy, Natty, not even back in school.” She’s trying to make me feel better, but it irritates me. It’s not like she has some secret insight just because she’s married. I decide to retaliate and bring up a mutual friend who has moved to the suburbs and mention how “different” our lives are, that the friend is so “settled”, knowing Shelly will identify more with her than me. On cue, she defends her.
“No, no,” I clarify, “not better or worse. Just different.” Though I did imply worse. She asks me about work, and I try to make my corporate job sound more impressive than it is. I tell her about the promotion as if I have already accepted it.
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“I’m just surprised,” she tells me. “I always you’d be the one to make it in the art world.”
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The comment stings. Probably it was meant to. I absent-mindedly open Instagram. By the time our food arrives, Shelly notices how often I am checking my phone.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
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“Sorry, just work.” I turn my phone over to show I am focused on her but spend the rest of the meal fighting the urge to pick it back up. Instead I pick incessantly at a hang nail. When we go to pay, my cuticle is ragged and bleeding. I remember the sheer pink nail color I was wearing in the last post and make a mental note to purchase a bottle of that shade.
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We hug goodbye outside the restaurant, and I am finally free to look at my phone again. I crouch down by a reeking pile of black garbage bags as a rat skitters by, an addict able to sneak a puff at last. A drop of blood from my finger smears across the screen. There is a picture of me waiting: hair pinned up, clothes dotted with color, and a finished painting sitting on an easel. She looks happy. I think again about quitting my corporate job.
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***
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Friday comes. Jenny is throwing a party and there’s someone she wants me to meet. When she invited me earlier in the week, I had planned to fake sick, but I know this will be good for me and decide I’ll go. It’s a chance to put myself out there, and its promising that she has someone picked out for me. I open YouTube and search “how to flirt”. The first video overwhelms me—the host is so young and there is so much I don’t know—so I switch to Instagram.
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I type my own name into the search bar. The second profile has an asterisk, a legal disclaimer. I scroll through pictures of myself in beautiful dresses on faraway islands I can’t afford to visit until I find one of me on a date. I tap on the jacket—its on sale at Nordstrom for $350. I check my bank’s app, there isn’t enough in my checking account. I buy it anyway, in a frenzy, and feel sick.
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I’ve wasted too much time and get ready in a rush. It only dawns on me when I look at my full-length mirror: I’m a poor approximation of Her. Same straight hair, but mine is already starting to frizz. My skin is pale and sickly compared to hers. The comparison deflates me, and I hurry off to dinner.
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***
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Jenny’s apartment is pumpkin-scented and decorated in shades of tan, cream, and beige. She has invested in her furniture, as far as I can tell none of it, not even the storage pieces, is from Ikea. Geometric advertising awards line the top of an oak bookshelf above copies of “Lean In” and “Thrive.” I picture myself living in an apartment like this, the owner of superfluous décor and an espresso maker. Maybe I should take the promotion.
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“Natalie, you’re here!” Jenny introduces me to a well-dressed man about my age. He’s handsome, though not in the classic way Mark is.
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“Jason works in tech,” Jenny tells me as she walks off to greet another guest. He works specifically in ad sales, he tells me, after I take too long to ask, and he finds a way to bring it up.
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I hope he thinks my sudden flush is from the wine.
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“Like, targeted ads?” I ask.
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“Sure, sometimes.”
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Jenny’s friend Michelle overhears.
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“Are you talking about those creepy Instagram ads?” she asks. Most people have heard about the targeting by this point. There was a cable news cycle of experts debating the morality and privacy concerns, though apparently, we had all given permission when we made our accounts and clicked a check box next to the terms and conditions. Instagram itself touted the effectiveness of the ads—you could see exactly how a product would look on you. You’d never need to go to a store to try something on again.
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“I keep hearing about those things, but I haven’t seen one of me. I’m so curious,” Michelle tells Jason.
“Well, that makes sense that you wouldn’t,” Jason chuckles.
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“Why is that?”
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“You’re very…satisfied. We don’t waste such expensive ads unless the person fits a demographic that is likely to buy.”
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“Fits how?” Michelle asks. “Like a certain age?”
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“Yeah, and you know, someone willing to spend money to improve themselves. Someone vulnerable to marketing and with a low sense of self. The type who wants us to tell them who they are. Someone more, I don’t know, desperate.”
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***
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I make it safely home. Humiliation burns through me. Could Jason be right? Am I like that? I pace around my living room. Maybe the breakup really was a mistake. When I was with Mark, no one questioned my desperation. And I clearly can’t handle reentering the dating pool.
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I consider texting Mark. I could do it right now. I spent so much time debating the decision to end our relationship, trying to predict whether he would ever get over his commitment issues. And I was relieved once I did it. But no one told me that I’d have to keep making that decision. That once you choose one of two divergent roads, the road just keeps forking, infinitely, and it’s exhausting to choose each time. You could just turn around and go back.
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I’m breathing fast and shallow. My eyes dart around for my phone—like a child in need of a pacifier. Hands shaking, I open Instagram. There She is—there I am—at the top of my feed, a new post. She fills my entire screen.
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She’s with Mark. They are laughing together in front of a fireplace. They wear matching knitted sweaters that I can order now, shipping included. She looks comfortable. The opposite of desperate.
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***
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The next morning at work, Jenny tells me that her boss is asking what I will decide. Also, Jason from the dinner party asked for my number. I don’t engage with either piece of information, only glancing up from Instagram to acknowledge I’ve heard her.
***
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That weekend, a chill picks up. The fall always makes me uneasy, the sun setting earlier and earlier as winter descends. I have to make my decision by Monday. As I load the dishwasher and fold laundry, I picture Her next to me, twinning my actions, only better, more beautifully, more gracefully. Except She wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t have ended up here in the first place. She would have been brave enough to chase her artistic dreams, not settled for a man with commitment problems. She wouldn’t live in this small apartment that she can’t afford alone.
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The day drags on. I check my phone constantly, picking it up again the moment I set it down. I need to take out the trash, put away the dishes, make this decision. But I can’t get off the couch, can’t get off the phone.
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I try making a pro/con list. Until recently, I have always tried to outsmart life, to stay one step ahead of pain. Now I realize that pain is unavoidable. I jot down three “pros” before I pick up my phone again.
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When I finally get in bed and close my eyes, I see square outlines scrolling past. Sleep doesn’t come for hours.
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On Sunday, I realize I haven’t left the house all weekend. The pajamas I’m wearing are sweaty, and grease is gathering at my hairline. I google “social media addiction” and contemplate deleting Instagram.
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I twist the tap to start a shower and sit cross-legged on the tiled bathroom floor with my phone, letting the room heat and fog up. She has posted a vacation selfie in an orange bikini exactly the right shade for her—our—complexion, her salt-soaked hair is clasped at the top of her head, and soft sunset lighting blurs her tan, poreless face. I can buy her swimsuit, her hair clip, her face moisturizer. I realize I have begun to hate her. Leave me alone, I want to yell, but at who? Myself? By the time I look up, the shower water is coming out cold.
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As I get into bed, I check my phone. Jason has texted me to ask me out. I am surprised at how optimistic I feel. I capitalize on it and delete the Instagram app. I have the fleeting thought that maybe life isn’t one branching path. Maybe it’s a jumbled mess without lines or lanes or rules.
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***
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Jason chooses a trendy sushi place in Brooklyn Heights that I can walk to from my apartment. The trees outside my front door have lost their leaves and are all bony branches. Jason is quieter and more formal than he was at Jenny’s. I think this is a good sign, an indication that he is nervous and takes this date seriously. We aim our phones at the gray scale QR codes, and I try to focus on the task of reading the menu, without letting my finger slip away and tap another app.
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We chat politely as we look over the menu. He moved here from San Francisco last year. The tech scene is better but the food scene is worse, he tells me. I want to ask him more about the targeted ads, ask if he sees what he is doing is predatory. But I don’t want to offend him on a first date, and do I really have the high ground? Is advertising pharmaceuticals that much better? It comes up anyway, he turns out to be very passionate about his job.
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“It’s such a gift to our users. I can’t wait until the phased roll out is finished and everyone gets the benefits.”
“What benefits?” I want to scream this at him. What benefits? A new metric to which “the users” can never live up? An amalgamation of all their worst insecurities, acknowledgement that it is in fact possible to be better, smarter, prettier, we are all just making the wrong choices?
“What benefits?” He loves this question. “How about ads so curated you never have to browse for, research, or debate a purchase again? How about not having to wonder how you will like a purchase, you can see yourself interacting with it? It’s like a portal to the future, only a future where you are your best self using the perfect products for you.”
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His enthusiasm exhausts me. I take in the room: other couples that appear to be on early dates, a few singles at the bar tapping on their phones. Then I see Mark. He is sitting with another woman, their bodies tilted toward each other over a plate of crab rangoon. She laughs at something he says, pivots her head toward me so that I can see he is with my yoga teacher Starr. Mark reaches across the table to hold her hand in his.
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My body is hot, and for a moment I worry I’ll cry. I am desperate to escape but force myself to stay seated, do everything I can to focus on what Jason is saying.
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It is useless. My eyes continually drift over. Is it possible Starr is already his girlfriend? That while I have been writing and deleting texts to him, he has been happily away from the phone, on dates. That outside of her Tuesday morning Peaceful Reset Class, she has been spending her days with my Mark?
There is movement: Mark is going to the bathroom. I know that following him is a terrible idea and that I cannot possibly help myself. I tell Jason I need to use the restroom.
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I turn the corner to the bathroom and there he is, on his way out. His face doesn’t register much surprise so he must have noticed me earlier too.
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“Hey, Nat.”
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We exchange the normal pleasantries, and he tells me I look well. To seem like I am doing better than I am, I tell him about the promotion offer. He congratulates me diplomatically.
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“Of course, you won’t take it, will you?”
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“What? I might. I’m thinking about it.”
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“You’re always thinking about it.”
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I have no idea what he means, which must show on my face.
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“I’m just saying, Nat. I’m sure you love the idea of being promoted. Just like you love the idea of being a painter. Like you loved the idea of me.”
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Starr calls to him, and he smiles at me apologetically. There is a possessiveness in her tone that is too familiar for this to be a casual date.
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I tell Jason I’m not feeling well and leave. I don’t breathe again until I am safely back home.
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***
On the couch, I don’t think. I re-download Instagram. I tap the icon over and over until the app opens. I exhale. There I am. With Mark. Behind us, the sun is setting over a lush mountain top. He holds my waist from behind and we are nearly toppling over with joy. On my left ring finger sits a massive, ethically sourced, emerald-cut diamond. We beam into the camera. At some point in the evening, a text from Jason appears on the screen, but I swipe the notification away. Jenny calls but I press the red ignore button. A message appears from Shelly: “I’m worried about you.” The sky darkens outside. I continue to scroll.
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​​By Emily Anderson
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Emily Anderson is a writer based in San Francisco. She was born and raised in Florida, and received a BA in English from the University of Florida.
Instagram: @emwritesandreads