Got a social function to get to? Begin at “fashionably late” and tack on an hour. That crucial 60 minutes that used to be reserved for self-medication—when you weren’t expected to manage more than a few grunts of small talk—has been obliterated. Now? That first hour is strictly for the picture rodeo. You taking pictures of them. Them taking pictures of you. Them taking pictures of their cocktails. Their cocktails taking pictures of the appetizers. Them passing around their phones so you can see the pictures of you, you with your cocktails, and any vacation photos they might have from the last five years. You can’t stop striking a pose long enough to sip your drink. Despise having your picture taken? You might be an adult with agency and sound reason, but the camera cowboys treat you like a stubborn child. “Oh, please? Just one. It won’t kill you. Was that so bad?” Yes. It was. Look, I pretend your gluten allergy is a real thing. You back off from the pictures, and I’ll put down the plate of linguine. Even if it wouldn’t kill you to take a bite.