My first real job was at LaVerdiere’s Drugstore. I was 16. I was required to wear a white uniform with white nylons. On slow nights, I wandered the aisles, killing time by flipping through albums and rearranging the yellow Jean Naté perfume boxes.

If it was really slow, I would practice singing Minnie Riperton’s “Lovin’ You” to fill the silence. “La la la la la la la.”

At LaVerdiere’s I learned how to count change back to customers. The money I earned was used to buy clothes, gas and concert tickets. My first concert venture was to the Bangor Civic Center to see The J. Geils Band.

Jean Naté, a perfume brand started in 1935, is still sold in local drugstores such as Walgreens. I know this because I frequent Walgreens once a week, usually on Sunday mornings. I do my best, however, to get in and out as fast as possible.

I’m a bit unnerved by the constant greetings from their clerks: “Welcome to Walgreens.” “How are you today?” “Did you find everything you needed?” “Have a nice day.”

“Welcome to Walgreens.” “How are you today?” “Did you find everything you needed?” “Have a nice day.” (And, in my opinion, drugstores should not sell lobsters.)

But Walgreens is so close to my house that I can’t resist the convenience. On any given Sunday morning I can throw a coat over my PJs, jump into a pair of Muck boots and be there in two minutes. Luckily, my middle-age invisibility cloak protects me from any judgmental stares from the general public: No one is looking at my wacked-out morning hair, and if they are, I don’t care.

So it was unusual to feel suddenly exposed at Walgreens last Sunday morning when I ran into a Facebook friend whom I had never actually met face to face. It was what my kid used to call an “awkward-turtle moment.” I’m pretty sure I blushed.

Embarrassed about my morning hair, I blurted out, “Oh, hey,” and ran to my car.

This particular Facebook friend is someone I have ongoing Facebook conversations with about politics and other Maine- or Portland-related current events. I comment, he comments, we like each other’s posts, etc. His friends are my friends, and some of them I’ve actually met in person.

Of course Facebook, using computer magic I don’t understand, creates my friends for me by sorting my news feeds based on the amount of times I interact with a certain person: The more I talk to friend “A” on Facebook, the more friend “A” talks to me. You get the idea.

The instinct to gather this small group of never-met-in-person Facebook friends for a beer at the end of a long workweek is enticing and reminds me of the days when I would gather with my real friends at a watering hole like Dewey’s before too much serious behavior took over our lives.

I suppress this impulse to post an Evite, because there is no social context or next step to hanging out with “friends” you have never met. As a result, I sometimes feel lonely after talking to my online never-met-in-person Facebook friends – not so lonely that I’m wandering around my house singing Minnie Riperton’s “Lovin’ You,” but, still, an emptiness I can’t explain.

I am fortunate to have many real friends whom I break bread with almost every weekend. I have a great family. I feel very, very lucky. And yet I’m drawn to Facebook on a daily basis to see what my never-met-in-person friends are up to.

As I scroll through my news feed, mesmerized by the diverse posts of this group, I often hear a voice in my head that says: “Turn off the computer, Jolene.” “Turn around and communicate with the real person in the room.”

That is, if I can catch my husband before he starts Season 3 of “Vikings.”

Jolene McGowan lives and works in Portland with her husband, daughter and dog and has no plans to leave, ever. She can be contacted at:

respondtoportcitypost@gmail.com

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