conversational metadata (or how to sound so dorky you’ll never get a date)

First things first: what the hell is metadata, right?

Metadata is the stuff that sort of hangs out with a document, but isn't actually part of what you see on the screen or the page. It's things like the document name, the name of the author or last person who worked on it, or the date it was last revised. Metadata is also stuff in the document, like hidden text, comments or track changes -- features that require extra coding, extra effort to get rid of, and, in the worst cases, lead to corruption.

I work at a law firm (as a computer trainer, which, if it isn't apparent yet, will only become more clear as I blather on about this), and we conscientiously strip our documents of metadata -- no client needs to know that Bigwig Attorney copied this document from another one on the system and just renamed it for this client... and then billed six hours for that. I've recently been revising the instructional information on how to do this, so metadata's been, well, front of mind.

Anyway, I was out with a friend last night who is about ten years younger than I am, and a total delight. I love her like a sister. And she moved to LA, so I miss her like hell. But as we were having one of several conversations, I had all these thoughts running through my head, like, "I'm not at all fun like her other friends" and "I hope she doesn't hate me for not being able to stay out all night drinking" and "god, I'm old."These thoughts were not a part of our conversation, but they were lingering around the fringes of it, just waiting to corrupt it. I required extra energy to get rid of them, and, like identifying information, they kept trying to remind me of who I was. (Not necessarily who I am NOW, but like Bigwig Attorney's metadata, they wanted to reveal who the last author was.)

Metadata can sometimes be helpful, especially if you're trying to figure out where a document originated. But conversational metadata is only useful in reflection, to see how far you've come, and to realize that you're not old, you're just not 22.