JOMO, the Joy Of Missing Out

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FOMO.

Fear.

Of.

Missing.

Out.

It’s a problem.

It’s especially a problem now, because now, more than ever, we know what other people are doing.

Back in the day, you used to have to write a letter. It could take weeks to get to them. More, if the rider got drunk or the horse was slow. Then, your correspondent would have to craft a response. By hand. With ink. The ink had to dry. They’d seal the letter with wax. Back in the saddlebag. Back on the horse. By the time you received that letter, they probably weren’t doing those things anymore! They could be pregnant! They could have died! You’d respond to their outdated news with news of your own that would be outdated by the time they got it. Ink to paper, paper in envelope, wax to seal. And again and again.

As recently as 30 years ago, you actually had to pick up the phone and call your friends. You had to ask them what they were doing. While asking them, you had to sit by the phone or stand in a phone booth. You didn’t make dinner. You didn’t do laundry. You didn’t commute. You put your body next to the phone and talked into it. You marveled at the miracle of hearing someone’s voice, perfect and seemingly in miniature, delivered directly to your ear. That voice could be thousands of miles across the country. Astonishing! You’d yell into the telephone because you could hardly believe the magic.

Even at the dawning of the interwebs, at least you had to send someone an email or schedule a date with them in a chat room. You wouldn’t see a photograph unless it was attached. And attachments could carry viruses, so you were careful.

Now, however, if someone’s at Burning Man wearing googoo goggles and an elephant trunk cock, you know instantly. You can see that so-and-so is snorkeling in Turks & Caicos. You’re aware that, at this very moment, a frenemy is on artist’s retreat in Laos, a friend is summiting a mountain, this one’s opening on Broadway, that one’s hitchhiking around Hawaii because that’s how people get around in Hawaii, and really it’s perfectly safe, isn’t that so cool?

We’re a digital culture of pseudo-stalkers. If we wonder where our friends are, we don’t even necessarily have to text them. Instead of communicating directly, we can just peek at their digital scrapbook. We can likely satisfy our curiosity in three clicks or less, without them even knowing.

We see what they’re doing without us. We know what we’re missing out on.

Or we think we know.

Just like with romantic relationships, nobody knows what’s actually happening on the inside of an experience — except the people inside it. Nobody knows the real dynamic except for those involved. And sometimes not even them! We don’t really know what that shiny award feels like because we cannot live for a single moment on the inside of someone else’s skin. Maybe they still feel like an imposter. Maybe they can’t shake the feeling that someone else was more deserving. We cannot hear anyone else’s thoughts as they think them. It might appear as though they are having the time of their life adventuring through the Middle East, but if you asked them with a little tenderness and curiosity, you’d find out that the trip has been a bone-chillingly lonely night of the soul. To know for certain — as much as we can know anyone else’s experience through words — we still need to ask.

Recently I texted a world-traveling friend, “It looks like you’re killin’ it!”

“Just out of curiosity,” he replied, “what makes it seem like I’m killin’ it?”

His Facebook posts, that’s what. His sublimely epic photography.

Facebook image crafting. That is its scientific name. I saw a meme the other day that sums it up beautifully:

 

“Don’t forget to pretend to have your shit together for strangers on the internet today.”

 

Scientists are studying the effects of social media on our well-being. It’s harder and harder not to “compare our insides to other people’s outsides.” Other people’s outsides look so fucking good. They’re in happy relationships, they’ve got cute kids, their digital business is on FIRE, Sundance was amaaaaazing, etc. Deep down, I know it’s not the whole truth. I’ll take 20 photos, 50 sometimes, to get the one that I post on Instagram. Most of us do know, intellectually, that our digital personas are mostly a highlights reel, an intangible yearbook full of pretty angles and and good hair days and hashtag grateful moments and people practicing yoga “every damn day.” (Frankly, I’m lucky if I drag my ass to class once a week. Teaching is not practicing.) Yet, we scroll through this exquisitely filtered yearbook, imagining that we know what it feels like to be other people. It is a habit. And it is quicksand to the psyche. Or perhaps you know it by its common name:

 

compare and despair

 

When we compare like this, the way we feel against somebody’s image-crafting, the outcome is harmful, even if we come out on top. Judging others to enhance our self-image tends to have the same effect as measuring ourselves against those we admire: Pain.

***

I was up at 3am one summer night in 2014, studying the Instagram feed of the man I thought I would marry. Study is the correct word. I wanted to know something. We were in a long-distance relationship. He had broken up with me a few weeks before.

I didn’t sleep much that night.

A few days before that, I was walking from the subway to an afternoon rehearsal for Much Ado About Nothing. In Much Ado, I played Hero, a young woman publicly scorned by her fiancé. As I crossed 8th Avenue and fired up Instagram to spy on my now-ex, I saw his picture of a bouquet. The caption read: “Flowers for my lady.” I stopped in the middle of the street, frozen, for an unsafe amount of time. When I regained motor control, I used my legs to continue crossing the street, simultaneously pulling up his Facebook profile. There was the confirmation. His and hers photos in a huge box with a heart on it. They had publicly declared themselves to be “in a relationship.” Her family seemed very happy.

I got through rehearsal, like I always do. “The show must go on” has always felt very literal to me. My director pulled me aside afterwards. Asked me what was going on. I told him. (Shortly thereafter, he fucked me without a condom, came inside me without asking, and didn’t say sorry, even when I told him I had to take a morning-after pill. But that’s another story.)

“I know it hurts,” he said. “Use it for Hero. This will make you a better Hero. You’ve known betrayal.”

Jeremy had never posted pictures of me on his Instagram. We didn’t even become social media “friends” while we were together. Over the next few days, I obsessed over his feed. I constantly refreshed, almost hoping for fresh pain. I got it. He posted more photos with loving captions. Photos of them on a hike. More flowers. “What is it with the flowers?!”

I was reviewing those shots again, that late night in bed, trying to pinpoint 1. when they met and 2. why he loved her. I think they met when I stopped hearing from him so much. I learned that she was bookish. Blond. Wore glasses, like him. Medium pretty. Loves coffee. Probably worked at his cafe… Why her? What does she have that I don’t? She’s not as beautiful as I am, I consoled myself (without making myself feel any better). But she’s there. And she drinks coffee.

Somewhere in the middle of all this self-destructive internet stalking, I paused. I closed my eyes and asked myself, Lila: Do you really want to be happy? You say you do, but do you really? I waited, became very still, and listened for the answer.

I do.

I do, now.

This was an answer I had never been able to give myself before.

Then you have to stop.

I wiped his presence from my media feeds that night. I put away his watch and his gifts and his love letter. I didn’t touch anything related to him for an entire year.

***

If it hurts, don’t do it.

I tell this to my yoga students. So I told it to myself. The reason I didn’t “unfriend” him before was because I feared “missing out” (on seeing what he was up to). Removing my ability to spy on him was perhaps my first truly self-loving act in the romance department. It also inspired me to be more judicious about my Facebook intake overall. After that night, I went on a hide / delete / clear / release rampage. I stopped scrolling so fast and started checking in with my actual reaction to each post, each bit of news, each photograph.

I found I was doing a lot of wishing I were somewhere else, resenting my work, and lusting after other women’s husbands.

If social media hurts, don’t do it. Or alter it to suit you. Shift your scope, so that it doesn’t become masochism. Take control of what you ingest.

I began to “unfollow” anyone whose posts triggered these responses. If I felt a twist of jealousy, a pill of bitterness, or a wash of pity for myself, I just removed the thing. Even if it was something I felt I “should” be supportive of or happy about or inspired by, I was ruthless. I hid anything and everything for which I was not able to feel joy or empathy.

If it hurts, don’t do it.

Hide, unfriend, remove, block.

With every click, I felt a tiny, wild, rush of relief. A dopamine hit of pleasure. In many instances, I found that I didn’t need to remove the person entirely from my web. Hiding their scrapbooks was enough for me. Each time I “unfriended” a person I felt disconnected from, or removed triggering posts from my news feed, I mentally said “so long!” and wished them well. Sometimes I accompanied this with a big go forth! movement with my arms.

It’s not that I didn’t want them to have what they were having. I just didn’t want to see it.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that many of the glitzy, fantastical adventures of other women are not actually my dreams. As Amy Poehler wrote in her memoir Yes Please, “Good for her; not for me.” It’s become a very useful mantra.

***

A few summers ago, most of my housemates were preparing for Burning Man. My roommate Tiger debated quite seriously over whether or not to go. She’d gone in years past. She was tempted by the possibility of transcendent experiences. And since many of our housemates were going, and people from all of her different communities were nudging her, she felt pressured to at least consider it. She deliberated. She meditated on it. She asked herself what she actually wanted. The answer that came up was: nesting. That year, Burning Man would not have been an opportunity for her, but a trap. What she really wanted to do was to sleep late and cook, maintain a regular yoga practice, take some workshops, and clarify her boundaries. At home. This is what she did. One quiet night at the house, we invited some girl friends over for a tapioca pudding party and played my favorite game, Gravitas (the little box of big questions). It was great. We weren’t missing out.

We thought there should be a word for this, for not going on the trip, or choosing to stay home from the party, or saying no to a business opportunity. We decided that the opposite of FOMO is JOMO.

Joy Of Missing Out.

The Joy Of Missing Out means you choose your present moment, opt out of all the other things you could be doing and, when you step back to survey your choice, decide that it is good.

***

My favorite place at a party is outside the party. I want to be invited, but once I get there, I preferred to be party-adjacent. On the stoop, in the yard, on the porch, in the back room. In the hallway, on the roof, on the coat pile in the bedroom. I want to be tangentially related to the party, included but not intrinsic. In the midst of the festivities, my interactions often felt like empty calories, unsatisfying and crunchy. I enjoy being near the party (and, naturally, seeing what everyone is wearing!) but not in it. The best conversations happen outside, and it’s pretty much always the conversations that I want.

Parades feel like mosh pits to me. I find crowds, even small, curated ones, intense. When we have our huge, 250-person Hacienda parties, I find it positively exhausting. It feels like 250 different radio stations playing at once. I have the sense that I can viscerally feel all the excitement, nerves, jealousies, broken agreements, lusts, disgusts, and fears. It’s a lot. I even feel it when I go in my room (which is always locked and off-limits to partygoers) and shut the door. I’m tired for days afterwards.

***

For most of my life, I assumed that I was an extrovert. People who met me on a good, sociable day would have concurred. I definitely wanted (want) people’s attention, love, and admiration. I wanted lots of it, from lots of people. I was a performer from the age of seven. I felt comfortable in groups. I always raised my hand in class. So I seemed like an extrovert. In fact, I’m pretty sure that the first time I confessed to a friend I thought I might be an introvert, he laughed.

“You?”

Me.

The only reason I even entertained the possibility was because, over a decade ago, I read the article “Caring for Your Introvert,” by Jonathan Rauch. It reframed introversion and extroversion in my mind. I stopped thinking of them as inherent personality traits, and started thinking of them as the way in which people recharge.

Introverts aren’t people who dislike other people (those are misanthropes), “Rather, introverts are people who find other people tiring.”

People who find other people tiring.

I did find other people tiring! I do! After a party, or a rehearsal, a class or a meeting, even after spending intimate time with just one person, I often feel weary. I never connected it with the amount of social energy I expended, and my desire to recharge.

In college, I thought there was something wrong with me. I had a repetitive involuntary mantra looped in my brain repeating, “I’m so tired, I’m so tired, I’m so tired.” I wondered if I had chronic fatigue or another autoimmune disorder. I didn’t consider that living in a low-cost triple (three people in a dorm room built for two) or going straight from class surrounded by loud, peacocking theatre majors to rehearsal surrounded by more of the same, might affect my ability to recharge my internal batteries.

***

I know this energetic, handsome athlete in his early 20s. Whenever I see him at a social gathering, he leaves early to go to another one. When he hugs me, I get the sense that he’s actually hugging the person behind me. No sooner have I reached out my arms but I regret it. His attention is already on to the next person before we even touch. He’s perpetually smiling, but I rarely feel the warmth of it. The smile doesn’t penetrate past the surface layer of his eyes. I get the sense that he’s smiling because that’s what you do. That’s how a person gains friends and maintains connections and gets invited to more things. One smiles. I have the impulse to put my hands on his shoulders and say, “Stop. Stay.” Stay here. Look at me. Not over there. Here. Me. Stay. The last time I ran into him on the subway, I did.

***

For the most part, I took this possibility of introvert-ism as doctor’s orders to stop attending parties, with the exception of dinner parties, clothing swaps, and blues dancing house parties — the more intimate affairs that I really enjoyed. I still go to the occasional extravaganza, but once I hit my threshold—which, as with museums, hovers somewhere in the realm of two hours — I just leave. I don’t say goodbye, because then people ask me why I’m going. I simply slip out. I feel a surge of pleasure when I step out the door, coat on, purse in hand, liberating myself from an overwhelming, sometimes boozy, situation.

A couple of years back, I was introduced to the concept of the “ambivert.” Neither purely introvert nor extrovert, the ambivert acts as one in some situations and another in others. To a certain extent, I don’t believe that pure introverts and extroverts exist, or at least, they are far fewer than we imagine. As Kinsey wrote of his studies on sexuality, “The world is not to be divided into sheeps and goats. It is a fundamental of taxonomy that nature rarely deals with discrete categories… The living world is a continuum in each and every one of its aspects.”

Some people exhaust me. Some days I go to a small party and I would still have been better off staying home. Some nights I’m the person holding court around the dinner table or laughing maniacally with a group of my housemates. If I don’t chat a little with people after a performance, I feel a subtle emptiness when I get on the subway. If I don’t get a proper dose of alone time in the course of a given day, I grow brittle and ungenerous. I am sensitive and flexible. I also operate on a case-by-case basis. This makes me less predictable but extra human.

I used to have a housemate who was a DJ. He once made this comment, an observation that felt like an accusation, “You’re in one of two modes when you get home. You’re either completely exhausted or totally on.” Hi guys! or Get me the fuck to my room. He’s right, and it entirely depends. It depends on how much battery life I’ve expended that day. It depends on sleep. It depends on how many people have required my attention and how deeply, whether I’ve had sex recently, and who’s in the kitchen when I get home.

Imagine a pitcher. Lemonade, not baseball. I envision our life-force (creativity, good juju, vivaciousness, will, motivation) as contained by a glass pitcher with no lid. At any time, we can either be filling up or pouring out. It may be possible to fill up and pour off at the same time, but it’s awkward and complicated and potentially messy. I fill up alone. Mostly.

***

In 2014, I went on a spontaneous romantic getaway weekend to Chicago. I hadn’t been to Chicago in about fifteen years. My then-boyfriend was there for work, and had a formal dinner to attend our last night in town. I was not invited and I had no plans. I thought I would explore the more bohemian neighborhoods, get some artsy food, and buy a locally-made something or other—but I felt so laaazy. And I had this magnificent hotel room at the Peninsula all to myself.

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I imagined getting dressed to go out, and then visualized the trains and transfers it would take to get to Pilsen or Ukrainian Village—just thinking about it felt exhausting. And then I thought, JOMO.

First I watched him get ready. I wrapped myself in the thickest robe and watched him tie his tie. He looked so handsome. So serious. So lawyerly.

When he left, I ran a bubble bath and watched “So You Think You Can Dance” on the TV in the bathtub. (The bathtub had a TV!)

I got under the covers with the robe on, and loafed and wrote and watched until he got back from his work event. Then I got dressed and met him downstairs to eat bar snacks for dinner. I hardly saw Chicago.

Don’t regret it at all.

If you’re enjoying your own life, you’re not missing out.

Okay. You might be missing out.

In fact, you are definitely missing out. You’ll always and forever be missing out on something, no matter how careful, deliberate, or intuitive your choices. Making the decision to spend your evening at a barbeque with friends means that you cannot simultaneously see the game at Madison Square Garden or fly to Pompeii with your sweetie. It does preclude all other choices. (As the Improvised Shakespeare folks say, “assuming a linear theory of time.”)

Since your body cannot be other than where it is, enthusiastically choose your choice.

Show up.

Show up, or leave, or find yourself a spot just outside the party.

JOMO, baby.

JOMO.

 

 

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