I have FOMOphobia

As I was working out the other morning, perusing an article in I think it was an old Glamour magazine that was on the rack at the club, I learned that I have FOMOphobia.

Yes, I have an affliction called Fear Of Missing Out. And I discovered that it doesn’t lie dormant, and it’s been festering for years.

Last summer, when I had to miss a dear friend’s major-milestone birthday celebration (far be it for me to name numbers) — a girls-only, fraught-with-fun Friday fete — my FOMOphobia really flared up. Not only did I fear missing out on honoring the birthday girl, drinking  Rombauer, eating great food and fancy cupcakes, but I’d also miss out on  the treasure trove of topics surely to be touched upon: Kids gone away (and astray), hormones gone amok, the latest dermal fillers, and who was planning to vacation where and with whom. Oh, and the table settings, the flowers, the opening of the gifts — I was going to miss it all. I mean, I so want to be a part of all that good stuff.

Another example: “Everyone” is saying I must go see Philomena, in theatres now. But it won’t be there forever (movies come and go so quickly these days, even if they are nominated for an Oscar).  So Fear Of Missing Out struck big time, thinking I wouldn’t have time to see it, which means that I then won’t be able to talk with “everyone” that’s talking about what a great movie it is. (So Chuck and I will rent it some Friday night in the future, and I’ll fall asleep on the couch within the first 20 minutes.)

On New Year’s Eve, three of some of my “favoritest” couples were ringing in 2014 together. We had previous plans — that were equally as festive with other dear friends —  but gosh, the fear I felt of missing out on being a part of the husband hilarity and chic chatter that I knew would ensue among the four couples. And seeing the after-photos of the subject evening? Killed my soul.

When Isaac Mizrahi unveiled his frugalista designs at Target a few Aprils ago, I was beyond excited. But I had to work that day (wa-wa-waaa.)  So I couldn’t be part of the throngs of “womanity” busting through the doors at 8:00 a.m. I so feared missing out on all the great buys, the mass hysteria, the over-hyped hoopla.

A few summers ago, when Julia brought home a boyfriend — whom I had already met, but Chuck had NOT — I just HAD to be there when she introduced “the boyfriend” to “the Dad.” I guess I feared missing out on — I dunno — their initial handshake? Seeing how “the boyfriend” behaved? Observing the repartee between “the Dad” and “the boyfriend”?  All I know: I did not want to miss out on that first encounter.

So what is it? What causes this phobia? Do you suffer from FOMOphobia as well? Or am I one of the few with this sometimes paralyzing malady?

Believe it or not, there is something worse than FOMOphoia.  It’s called BLOphobia — the fear of Being Left Out.

Example: I saw a recent post on Facebook of a gathering of friends on a beautiful winter’s evening, enjoying wine, dinner, more wine, laughter, and each other, together…without me.  I never got so much as an invite. Ouch!


{The cause of my recent outbreak of BLOphobia}

BLOphobia is excruciatingly painful.

But let’s save that for another day…


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About Me

It's true! Despite playing defense virtually all my life against the onslaught of this sometimes-ugly aging process, it...has...arrived! I naively thought I would escape cellulite (the Cottage Cheese) and crow's feet (the Crepe Paper). But I didn't! And why didn't anyone tell me about this emotional roller-coaster that comes with being an Empty-Nester?! My name is Jodie Barringer Myers. I'm a 54-year-old Friday/chardonnay/ hydrangea-loving wife/mom/court reporter living in Sacramento (Gold River!), California. Writing is cathartic for me. And because I look to find humor and humility among the rubble that is my now very peri-menopausal self, I'm hopeful that you will laugh, cry, learn, enjoy and, most of all, relate to what I have to say. After all, we're all in this together, right?

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