Adele delivered a baby boy! Well, reportedly Adele delivered a baby boy. And sometime recently. No one has an official word on this.
Unofficially, Twitter is abuzz with glad tidings. And, well, not so glad tidings.
Because – as some of us agree – if there’s ever a good target for lobbing cyber insults, cruel jokes, and death threats, that good target has to be a new mother and her newborn child.
Especially a celebrity mother and child. Because, you know, they’re celebrities. They’re asking for it. Or, they signed up for it. Or maybe the rationale is that they’re used to it? I keep forgetting.
But, c’mon, we all have some spare self-directed bile, spleen, and loathing we need to purge now and then. What better way to bypass expensive therapy than to create a semi-anonymous Internet handle and vomit forth our soul’s putrid emissions upon someone we don’t know? (And, no, Dear Haters. No matter how confessional Adele’s songs are, you don’t really know her. She isn’t your bestie who now doesn’t call or meet up for Girls’ Night Out because she’s got a boyfriend and a baby.)
I try to take the high road when I read this kind of garbage from bullies. I do. These people are probably mentally ill, I tell myself. They are suffering more being trapped with themselves all day long, trapped with their own nasty, pitiful thoughts, I say. Wow, sucks to be them, I reason.
But honestly? Part of me kind of wishes there were more accountability, more transparency. Like in the olden days, back when we had newspapers. Any old shmo could write in and comment on an article or complain to the rafters about Dingdong Politician or Damn Kids These Days. But the letter wouldn’t be printed without a confirmed and published first and last name and town and city of residence.
Maybe we should require a phone number and the names of your pastor and your favorite teacher from grade school.
That way, if you went on and on about how much you hated Adele and her new baby, how much you despise how “fat” she is, how you wonder how deformed looking her child is…well…a few things would happen. First, an editor would call you loooooong before press time and – in a way a Hit Send button doesn’t – say, “Why don’t you have a milkshake and a nap and think about what you wrote. Make sure you really want the whole world to read this, mkay?” If you still maintained your level of craze for forty-eight hours or so, then the open admission of who you are would at least give me the opportunity to tell my kids to stay away from your house on Trick or Treat night. And then your adored Kindergarten teacher would call you and tell you what a disappointment you’ve become.
Finally, if you were outed as a bitter, hateful sad sack, then maybe – hopefully – some good friend would take you aside for a sympathetic hug. And then direct you to a kind counselor with a soft sofa and a big box of tissues.