Young people today suffer from a serious condition called FOMO — Fear of Missing Out. They’re afraid there’s a party somewhere they’re not attending, a concert they’re not hearing or a tailgate they’re not tailgating. They see pictures on Instagram and think, “Oh, no. I missed it.”
I used to have FOMO. I really did. When I was younger, I wanted to be where things were happening. If somebody was having a party, I wanted to know about it. If there was a concert, I wanted to go. If friends were getting together, I didn’t want to be the guy sitting at home wondering what everybody else was doing. I didn’t want to miss anything.
Then I got older, and I discovered something wonderful: JOMO.
The Joy of Missing Out.
JOMO is the overwhelming pleasure of knowing something is happening somewhere and being absolutely delighted that you are not there.
Somebody’s having a party tonight? Wonderful. I’m staying home. There’s a concert downtown? Enjoy yourselves. I’m going to sit in my chair and watch television or read a book. There’s a big tailgate going on Saturday? Well, OK, you got me now. I’ll probably be there.
But I have reached an age where I no longer feel compelled to be everywhere. I’ve done things. I’ve been to parties. I’ve been to concerts. I’ve stayed out too late. I’ve gotten home when the sun was coming up. I’ve stood in lines. I’ve sat in traffic. I’ve gone places because everybody else was going.
I’ve had enough experiences to know that not every experience needs to be experienced.
That’s the secret of JOMO. You don’t feel like you’re missing something because you’ve already missed plenty of things and survived.
In fact, I’ve become rather talented at missing things.
Someone sends a group text: “Who’s going tonight?” I don’t respond. Five minutes later: “Anybody?” Still nothing. Then somebody posts: “This place is CRAZY!”
That’s when JOMO really kicks in.
I smile. I am sitting at home. There are no crowds. Nobody is yelling. Nobody is standing directly in front of me while I’m trying to see the stage. I don’t have to find my car in a parking lot at midnight. And I don’t have to spend $14 for a beer that tastes like somebody poured it through a lawn mower.
Eventually, somebody will post pictures. I’ll see them. I’ll look at the smiling faces and the flashing lights and the enormous crowd, and I’ll think, “Looks like everybody had a great time.”
Then I’ll put my phone down and go back to whatever I was doing.
That’s JOMO. It isn’t loneliness. It isn’t boredom. It isn’t being antisocial. It’s knowing the difference between being invited somewhere and actually wanting to go.
And I’ve discovered that there is an enormous amount of freedom in being able to say, “No, thanks,” without feeling guilty about it.
So go ahead. Have the party. Go to the concert. Take pictures. Post them on Instagram.
I’ll see them. I’ll admire them. I might even hit the little heart button.
But I won’t be there.
And that’s OK.
Because after a certain age, you realize something young people haven’t figured out yet: Sometimes the best place to be when everybody else is having fun is home.
