The Algorithm Wants You to Be Hot. I Want to Cringemaxx.

If a person flops on the feed and no one is around to hear it, does it even make a sound?

Photo by dole777 on Unsplash

I’m calling this my era of cringemaxxing. At least that’s what I want this era to be.

For anyone not chronically online (which, like, good for you), -maxxing is the hottest suffix to hit the block since -esque and was made famous by Gen Z, duh. To maxx is to enhance or alter your life to an extreme degree. I’m defining cringemaxxing as the radical act of creating without fear or embarrassment, because ultimately (!) who cares? That’s my mantra. Who cares? Who cares? Who cares? Then, in a moment of weakness, I realize that—most days—I care.

But last week, I had a sort of epiphany: All of this is cringe. Writing a Substack. Making a TikTok. It’s all silly and weird.

Social media is fun because it’s cringe. At least for me.

I recently saw a TikTok from a creator’s creator—you know, the self-anointed algorithm whisperers, the “Here’s how you go viral in three days” creators—who, in so many words, said, “Unless you’re hot, people aren’t going to care about your content unless you’re offering them something.”

I sat with this stranger’s take—for a while, actually—holding space for it, as one would hold an ornate stiletto-shaped acrylic nail in a press interview. It was one of those revelations that illuminates a suite of doubts: self-worth, authority, intelligence, and appearance—the hits!

What am I doing? What is the point of what I’m doing? My momentum halted because I was like, “I have to be hot, or I have to provide a 15-step content plan or printable PDF for my audience about a niche industry.”

It’s the curse of overintellectualizing—thinking instead of doing. That’s not fun. That’s not cringemaxxing.

There is a kernel of truth there in the unknown arbiter of social media’s take: Social media is intrinsically connected to aesthetics, authority, and aspiration. That reality is repeatedly derided as harmful.

It’s evident in the content from the creators I call The Beige Influencers™—the monotone talkers, the forces behind aesthetic-first content with profile grids that have a homogenous color story—a desert of humor and whimsy, but abundant with matcha, selfies, and Alo athleisure. The content isn’t cringe. At the same time, it is so unbearably dull. So dry that it makes me want to swan dive from the Eiffel Tower into a vat of hyaluronic acid.

I don’t want to be that, because I am not that. I’m not going to bring a professional photographer when I go to Trader Joe’s to get 27 bags of my favorite pasta shape. I don’t want to be a top industry voice, either—another self-anointed algorithm whisperer with a virtual class on god knows what.

Other voices have broken through the Zeitgeist, though. The irreverent creators—silly, weird, goofy. “Yes, it’s humiliating to film yourself doing sketches or reviews or talking about fairy smut,” they say (and I am editorializing a bit here). “But you have to push beyond that.” Pushing the self-imposed boundaries of what is and is not cringe, that’s great. I mean, I’m sure it’s great. I think it must be great.

But I never really believed any of those anecdotes when they came from those reaping the benefits of their cringe—after a person has pushed beyond the embarrassment and vulnerability and is now cringemaxxing blissfully. The tension and discomfort come from being in it, being in the fire, actively creating, hitting publish, and watching the views or clicks stand still. That’s when the what-have-I-done feeling crystallizes.

I’m choosing now, though, to believe their words—to cringemaxx without inhibitions—and create.