Nobody Is Watching for the Chicken Wrap

Oh, I know exactly what you’re talking about. And if I see one more slow-motion Facebook Reel that opens on a $3 million white kitchen, marble island glowing like the Pearly Gates, and a genetically gifted forty-something woman wearing what appears to be a napkin held together by hope, calmly explaining how to “quickly throw together a chicken wrap,” I’m going to lose it.

Let’s just say the quiet part out loud.
Nobody—nobody—is there for the wrap.

The chicken could be raw. The lettuce could be imaginary. She could be putting motor oil in the blender. It wouldn’t matter. Those “likes” are not coming from people desperately seeking lunch inspiration. They’re coming from a whole generation of men who know, deep in their souls, they have absolutely zero chance of ever standing in that kitchen with that women, eating that wrap, or even petting the dog that definitely wandered through the background.

And that’s the part that makes me laugh—and sigh—at the same time.

Because the setup is always the same. Soft lighting. Camera angled just right. White cabinets. No clutter. No bills on the counter. No junk drawer. No half-dead houseplant. Just perfection. She smiles, bites her lip like she’s thinking about something other than poultry, and casually says something like, “I’m just going to drizzle a little olive oil…” while wearing less fabric than a shower curtain sample.

Is this their life?
Is this really what we call influence now?

Somewhere along the line, we stopped rewarding people for actually doing things and started rewarding them for standing attractively near things. Cooking, but not really. Teaching, but not really. Existing… professionally.

And don’t get me wrong—I’m not anti-social media. Social media can be great. I follow people who make me laugh. People who actually teach you how to fix something, cook something, build something, or at least admit when they screw it up. I’ll happily watch a guy explain antique marks for ten minutes or a cat ring a bell to get a treat. That’s entertainment. That’s effort. That’s earned.

But prancing?

Prancing is not a career.

I didn’t spend decades working, aging, accumulating back pain and wisdom just to be softly hypnotized by someone pretending to care deeply about wraps. If your entire job depends on looking like you’ve never had a bad knee, a bad mortgage rate, or a bad night’s sleep, congratulations—but don’t tell me you’re “creating content.” You’re creating longing. Very curated, very monetized longing.

And maybe that’s the real joke. We’ve built an economy where attention is currency, fantasy is the product, and the rest of us are supposed to politely nod while thinking, When did this become the goal?

So yes. Stop it.
Stop whisper-talking recipes.
Stop pretending you just woke up like that.
Stop calling it influence when it’s really just a well-lit exhibition.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a chicken wrap in my very real kitchen, wearing sweatpants, under bad lighting, with zero followers—and somehow, I’ll still survive.

And I promise you this: it’ll taste just as good.