F.O.M.O!

FOMO, one of those youthful acronyms that didn’t feel as though it should be part of my 48 year old world; however, I have found myself inexplicably drawn to it.

Fear of:

Fear has been intermittently tapping me on the shoulder since I had awareness. Fear of unfamiliar people who towered over me as a tot; fear of being a burden or being rejected or being judged or being overwhelmed by groups of new, gregarious humans within the same generation as me as I moved past adolescence into adulthood.  Leaving home, university, parties, drugs, festivals; everyone visually demonstrating what an amazing time they were having, me cowering in my head, avoiding, pretending and occasionally surprising myself and enjoying.  Alcohol definitely played a large part in the point of me moving from discomfort to enjoyment though.

I have a yearning to be the witch in the Wizard of Oz when I encounter a group of extroverts; if I could melt under a bucket of water I’d be happy but I remove myself from my physical body and watch me, the faux extrovert, interacting with the group of gregarious souls who every now and then notice a chink in my facial expression until I press reset and she’s wide-eyed, smiling and back in the room.  I would have comfort in my fear if I was content in my PJs and slippers, suckling on the familiar breast of my home, never having a yearning to be somewhere else; be someone else; be something else. I yearn though; I desperately yearn.

Missing out:

Dancing is my natural extrovert. I have been dancing since my body could twist, twist like I did last summer; twist until I had a painful stitch in my side. I would twist and twist and twist with my dad as a child. Once I’d graduated from the twist I moved on to the repetitive VHS play and rewind of the Kids from Fame and Madonna concerts, mimicking every move; I added rib shift and body roll to my repertoire.

If I heard a song I would see it in dance moves in my head, I still do actually. And then I reached clubbing age and reserved Nettie had a dancing alter ego. No drugs or alcohol required I would dance, preferably in an elevated position feeling every note and rhythm throbbing through my veins.

I didn’t need to be dancing with people, all I needed was to enter the club with a group and then I would wait for the music to throw its lasso around me and I would join the euphoric throngs. Drugs therefore never appealed to me. Dancing was my ecstasy tab, my cocaine up my nose, my sniff of a popper. Note, Nettie still needed a blanket of companions wrapped around her in order to enter the club; she couldn’t have gone in alone. And this leads me to the missing out.

As I watch Glastonbury on the BBC I feel a familiar pain building in my chest. I had the opportunity to go when at university but missed out due to being in hospital. Then the opportunities ceased; friends not interested in going; boyfriends not interested in going; my fear not allowing me to question or challenge this and therefore settling but with huge regret.

I watch the throngs at Glastonbury dancing and the yearning to move my body hits me with full force, but it’s not the same in my living room. I could join those throngs, but I need someone familiar to enter the gate with, to share a tent with, to leave with, but not necessarily to dance with. I can do that with or without a friend because when I’m dancing, those extroverts would be my friends. However, when the music stops I would once again cower from those live wires.

Fear of Missing Out for me, therefore, isn’t fear that I will miss out, it’s my fear making me miss out. I can run a marathon on my own because we are moving in a multitude in the same direction not needing to laugh and make conversation; I can go to the theatre or cinema on my own because we are laughing or crying to a script with instruction so there is no judgement; I can go to a cafe on my own because I can choose when and how to use my eye contact and my smile and who with.  With a festival, however, there are all those gregarious live wires having an amazing, instagrammable time and when the music isn’t playing then I would have to step into my costume, switch on my cat face filter and interact when all I would want to do is dance.

So give me my blanket of familiarity of friends or friend and I will step into Michael Eavis’ farm or into another festival, however, without that, I will continue to drench myself in FOMO and dance in the bouncing night club that is my living room.