I almost said “the erosion of privacy,” but my focus here is on how individuals violate their own privacy, which I think reflects a lack of boundaries, Mark Zuckerberg’s views notwithstanding.

I first became aware of this trend when I noticed people posting about their sex lives on Facebook or as their IM status. And I’m not talking teenagers here, but adults my age, who should have developed some discretion and sense of appropriateness by this point in their lives. It’s great that your significant other is the best lover you’ve ever had, but does everyone — your parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, cousins, colleagues — really have to know? Why do you find this information appropriate for public consumption? And why do you feel the need to broadcast it?

The general consensus, at least among people who would never dream of sharing their sex lives in a public or semi-public forum, is, “Who are they trying to convince?” If you repeatedly tell everyone how wonderful your life is, most of us start to wonder what you’re trying to prove. It’s that whole “methinks the lady doth protest too much” concept.

Here’s the thing: People have always talked about their sex lives, and I don’t think there’s anything inherently wrong with that. But it used to be — am I dating myself too much here? — that these were conversations you had with a couple of close friends, quite possibly after a pitcher or two of beer. There’s also a distinction between a writer sharing very intimate details in a memoir, essay, or blog, and someone posting a quick update on Facebook or Twitter about the satisfying encounter s/he had last night. I believe this distinction is context: In a longer work, the sex figures into a narrative; it provides the reader with insight into the writer’s character, interactions, and even values. It also can inform and enlighten the reader, shed light on his or her own feelings, experiences, and struggles. Conversations with friends function in the same way.

But a comment on a social media site provides none of the context, no sense of narrative; it merely seems like the boast of an insecure teen: Hey, world, I got lucky last night! How cool am I?

Locker room talk served the same function, of course, but equating social media to the locker room seems a significant blurring of boundaries.

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Here’s another area in which too many people are willing to compromise their privacy, and it seems so ludicrous that I shouldn’t even need to address it: cell and smart phones in the restroom. If you are the President of the United States, I can understand the necessity of having your phone with you at all times. For anyone else, I’m sorry, but if you’re so (self-) important that you can’t pee without taking your phone along, maybe you should drink less coffee.

I hope I am never so indispensable to the universe that I can’t use the restroom in peace.

***

The ease and ubiquity of our communication devices has also eroded common courtesy. People check e-mail and text in the middle of conversations, classes, and meetings. My college has an official policy regarding cell phone usage in class.

There’s some backlash to the primacy of phones; my doctor’s office has a sign on the door saying that if your phone rings during your appointment, even if you don’t answer it, the doctor will immediately leave the room. You’ll have to wait until all other patients are taken care of before you’ll be helped. I recently saw a woman asked to leave the lobby at the post office because her loud phone conversation was distracting the staff so much that they were having trouble counting change. I think all of us in line quietly cheered when she went outside.

My particular pet peeve with this trend has to do with social mores. When I was growing up, my parents and teachers tried to restrict my reading and force me to interact with other people. I was not allowed to read at meals, which I understand now. I was not allowed to take books out to recess, which I still think was kind of ridiculous. (I remember wandering around the perimeter of the playground, lonely and awkward, desperately wishing for a book to hide me; but my teachers somehow thought denying that escape would be better for my social development.) The point is, I was taught that there are situations — namely, social ones — in which reading is inappropriate.

In Maui, we attended a luau. As soon as we sat down, I saw that the two young women across the table were completely immersed in their smart phones. Their mother eventually joined the group and introduced herself and her daughters. She was fun, crazy in the kind of way that I really enjoyed but that probably mortified her kids. I’m honestly not sure, though, whether her daughters even diverted their attention from their smart phones long enough to notice her. Occasionally they would whisper to each other and giggle, but during the course of the meal, neither of them seemed able to converse with anyone else or interested in trying. When the dancing started, I had to turn around to see the stage, but I wondered if they were so busy texting their friends back in Jersey that they missed the hula.

That kind of utter absorption in smart phones and other devices — to the exclusion of everything and everyone around — seems increasingly acceptable. And the reason I resent this so much is because of all the times in my life I’ve longed for a book but have been forced, or have reluctantly chosen, to allow social considerations to override that desire. There are plenty of situations in which  I do read, such as when I’m eating alone in a restaurant or standing in line at the post office or a store, and often people tell me how awesome that is. (I always respond that I mind waiting far less when I have a book to fill the time. Same with traffic jams.) But I still feel like there’s a stigma to reading in certain situations; I certainly wouldn’t have tried it at the luau, even if I’d been there alone.

Maybe I’m just bitter and jealous. Maybe I resent the implications I’ve perceived: book equates to lonely person with no life; texting means lots of friends who just don’t happen to be physically present at that moment. But I’d rather be a lonely person with no life and a book than someone who feels the need to carry a phone with me everywhere I go.