FOMO in Slo-Mo
Ever get that sinking feeling that maybe you’re not leading your best life? That instead of sitting around perusing lame TikTok trends where besties are milking cows in unison or watching Instagram reels challenging you to hold your breath until you die (or worse, wading through some chucklehead’s poor excuse for a blog), you should be hangin’ with the beautiful people, attending the opening of a glitzy gala bursting at the seams with A-list celebs, famous athletes, a real-life influencer or two and, hell, maybe even one of those women from “The Real Wives of the Tri-State Area”? Or, could be you daydream you’re being whisked away on a private jet to an exotic island, the type crawlin’ with high society folk, where you lie in the sun while a cabana person slathers you with suntan lotion as you sip your umbrella drink, having just finished up a 90-minute deep-massage. Or even better, you fantasize you’re one of those lucky people born into money. Big time money. The kind that gets you your own exotic island with the cabana people and the spa where you host one of those aforementioned A-list galas yourself.
Too grandiose? Fine, how ‘bout, instead of driving around in that money pit you call a vehicle, you envision yourself having paid cash up front for a brand-new Range Rover, ya know, just like my next-door neighbors, the Bensons, did yesterday. The one with the oversized blood-red bow attached to the hood. The bow that’s yet to be taken off, over twenty-four hours later. The one that’s been traversing the neighborhood time and again, at speeds well below twenty, the occupants, Bill and Missy--along with the twins and, yes, even their dog, Fluffy--all smiles. Missy’s especially off-putting, kind of like The Joker from “Batman”--the one with Heath Ledger--where the lipstick is smeared so much it looks like it was applied in the midst of performing in a monster truck rally. All the while that unmistakable “take a gander at this, sucka!’” expression plastered on their pasty faces… Sorry, where was I again?
So, yeah, there’s a name for this angsty feeling; it’s called “Fear of Missing Out” or FOMO for short. The words pretty much give away the definition: “Anxiety that an exciting or interesting event may currently be happening elsewhere, often by posts seen on social media” (or, hell, even people next door). The phrase itself was coined back in 2004 by Patrick McGinnis in a Harvard Business School newspaper article regarding the stress students were feeling over missed opportunities. And while the actual concept of “missing out” was far from being a new discovery at the time (everyone finishing third or worse in the “Noah’s Ark Harbor Cruise Raffle” some 3,400 years beforehand comes to mind), McGinnis was credited with the term and the acronym, FOMO, just when social media was gaining prominence, the payoff coming in 2013 when it was officially added to the Oxford English Dictionary.
So, there we have it, yet another malady being suffered by Gen X or Y or Z. Or Alpha. Or… Beta (that’s all of ‘em, right?). You know, those poor, put-upon snowflakes always armed with the same disparaging refrain, “Okay, boomer” to the elder set every chance they get, seemingly unaware of the prejudicial nature of their exchange. It’s called “ageism”, kids, and it hurts!... Just sayin’. And for the record, boomers would never get caught up in the pseudo-babble that is FOMO. We couldn’t care less who else around them might be living a better life. Hell, half of us are just happy we still have one. And, we also realize this whole concept is pure old-fashioned jealousy with a new-fangled moniker. The exact same kind that existed some thirty-five hundred years ago, etched on tablets, warning “Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s goods” (and, yeah, same goes for the wife). So suck it up, younger generations, and stop allowing trending social media posts to dictate your feelings of worth or lack thereof. Hell, most of it’s AI anyway.
Okay, gotta bounce. Got an appointment with my mechanic… Ahh, and there they are, right on time… the Bensons. Unbelievable, they can’t be doin’ more than 5 miles an hour. Some kind of slo-mo rendition of a Miss America pageant, complete with the synchronized hand waves (pretty sure Missy’s sporting a tiara). Oh man, look at that vehicle, the way it gleams in the sunshine, that sleek, modern design. And on top of it all, they paid cash? Man, why can’t that be me? Why does everyone else get to have all the fun?