On Missing Out

In this Sunday’s NYT Jenna Wortham explored the phenomenon acronymized as FOMO, where that very fear of missing out on all things wonderful and fabulous has only been exacerbated by social media. Because when people you know are at parties with cool people (with pictures, to boot!) why shouldn’t you feel like you went to the wrong one, or feel like even more of a wallflower because you weren’t invited or stayed home?

I’ve known, and do know, the feeling well. I live in New York, so there is always a better party or gathering happening that I don’t know about and will never know about. But lately I’ve wondered if I’m not experiencing this particular social anxiety but some post-modern version of it (POMO FOMO?) Namely, that I *should* fear I’m missing out when, more often than not, I’m okay with it. Kind of.

What I think is really happening is that what appeals to the thirtysomething me is different than what appealed to the twentysomething me, for good or for ill. I cut my teeth, from a work-social standpoint, on crime fiction and its associated community. I went to a ton of book events, conventions, awards ceremonies, and bars (for a little while I used to joke to friends that my occupation could be best defined as “drinking with crime writers.”) But after a decade, some social fatigue set in.

There are people, my true friends, who have my back and vice versa and know it (or I hope they know it, if not, rest assured, I do.) But I’ve seen people come and go, and now, without book, without blog and eventually, without regular review venues, The easy fit has morphed ever so slowly into square pegged-ness. I rise early and don’t want to stay out all that late. I drink less and am more choosy. I’m suspicious of compliments when I feel they ring false. Mostly I feel it’s other people’s turns to play the role of gadfly I was happy to play for a while, but lately stepped away from. It was bound to happen; I’ve spent the bulk of my adulthood in the mystery world, and my rate of change is different from the community as a whole.

But my choosing to miss out extends to many bookish activities. On a night when there are, say, three competing excellent events all around Brooklyn, I end up going to none of them, which of course is a choice. There are a lot of reasons: I’m a workaholic, unfortunately; there is actual work that needs to be done; I’m tired after 8-10 hours of immersing myself in all things publishing that the thought of going to an author event or some party where my bullshit detector will chime off the charts does not fill me with glee. There are other things for me to do, culturally and personally. I’d rather spend time in small groups or one-on-one.

Where I do derive joy is from, in no particular order a) my partner b) my day job c) other people I love and respect, family and friends d) birds chirping outside my window e) my own creative writing. Today, for example, a small group of us assembled at our local cafe to write, and it was, as always, fun and collaborative and collegial, and everybody got their respective work in. It felt wonderful to carve out a block of time to something that is mine, without expectation, reputation, social media tag, or the like. And I hope the long-running phase of social anxiety is less about succumbing to nascent introversion — though it is — and more about being in transition. To what, I’m not sure, or at least don’t want to articulate. Not to mention I think I’ve been in transition my entire life. But wherever I’m going, the decisions I’ve made along the way are the ones I needed to make. Those are the things I’d rather not miss out on.

I feel the same way, but in my case, I think it’s not having had the FOMO in the first place. Or not since college, anyway. I think most people grow out of it.

Which is not to say I never go to Whatever Constitutes the Cool Party This Week, but it’s usually by accident, and I’ve never, ever regretted not going to one in order sit at home with a novel and a glass of scotch (neat).

And I sometimes wonder how people who do care about that sort of thing manage to function without walking around in a state of perpetual anxiety-induced dread—especially in New York where there are huge numbers of other people who care about that sort of thing. Or how when they get to said parties, they don’t experience a feeling of crushing ennui an hour in (which always happens to me when no close friends are there and the conversation is all small talk.)

I just don’t buy that any of it matters. Realistically, failing to go to the right party will not affect your professional life, and no excuses you make about “needing” to go will ever convince me otherwise. And if it somehow affects your personal life, you probably need new friends. By all means, go if you think it’ll be fun, but if you’re experiencing any anxiety about it at all, you’re living too much in the bubble and need some time outside of it.

Then again, I probably don’t get invited to the right parties. But I wouldn’t know!

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