Did My RSVP Get Lost in the Mail?
Feasting with FOMO: A London Fable.
I’m at the Dublin airport, writing this half — I’m heading off to London for the very first time. It’s, technically, my first solo trip.
I know, I know: I moved to a foreign country solo — but it’s not the same thing. That was “life admin”, that was crafting routes and roots; London is vacation, is luxury, is education.
I have a whole itinerary planned for doing all my favourite things: seeing a musician’s concert, going to galleries and museums, strolling hidden neighbourhoods — and, of course, visiting endless bookmarked bakeries and reserved restaurants.
The weather forecast looks great; I’ve packed several nice outfits. I’ll be on my own schedule, my own timeline; no one to check in for, consult with, follow up on …
But, as I sit here at the airport gates, the 7AM sun streaming in past the clouds, watching grinning faces collect around me as they anticipate their travels ahead, I …
… Can’t stop thinking about a staff lunch that’s planned to happen at work today, with all my colleagues — whilst I’m off, flying away.
It’s a lunch at the exact same pub we always go to. I no longer have to message a colleague, asking where I can find them, where are they sitting — I know now: up the stairs, to the left, passed the snug. I’d turn the corner, just like any other time, to all their smiling, familiar faces; a chorus of Irish-drenched “Ay-oo!”-s. If I was there, today, I would probably get the exact same order I always get: the warm goat cheese salad, hardy yet refreshing; whatever glass of white wine Emily’s ordered just before me. Nearly once a month we gather here, company-wide, for a lunch; sometimes with no cause, other times with reason to celebrate.
Since I started working with the company, I’ve only intentionally missed one staff lunch, due to personal grievances — otherwise, I’m always there. I’m always coordinating my schedule to be there, asking if it’s all right if I leave the desk unmanned and be there, making a conscious effort to be there.
There’s no definable reason for me to need to be there. We’re a big enough group that I don’t find myself speaking up much, when there; often, I can barely hear what’s being said at the other end of the table. It’s a bit of a far walk from my building — I’m always racing back, left huffing and left puffing. No individual lunch in this calendar collection is distinctly memorable, always blurring into one after the other. I don’t take photos for Instagram of the food, I can’t always catch everyone’s eye and we don’t make any executive working decisions.
It’s a peaceful insignificancy, these moments, held in banquets that always seem too low for the table they’re at … Blurry, huffy, insignificant moments that are all I’m thinking about right now.
I should be thinking about London, and my first trip there that’s looming in the clouds an hour away.
I should be thinking about what new coffee shop I’ll go to when I land; I should be thinking about the Alice Phoebe Lou concert I’ll be attending that night, and if she’ll play my favourite song (‘Open My Door’); should be thinking about what novel memories I’ll create in one of the most famed, enigmatic cities in the world.
I should be thinking about how I’ve treated myself to this trip, how I didn’t let the desire mount and mount and instead encouraged myself to just book it, damnit; how proud I should be that I did what I wanted, when I wanted, as I wanted …
But instead, I’m thinking about whether Juliette will have another wildly hilarious story that I’ll miss out on, that I won’t hear, whose future references amongst the group I won’t get — even though I’d just seen her the day before and gotten an ear-full. Will Kate be there? I haven’t seen her in ages, and it always feels like a Christmas morning treat when she’s able to make it to a lunch; will I feel as if I’m the kid who shows up after the Christmas holidays with no present to brag about, in the form of a Kate-laced story, from that day? Will Mark get his usual dish, one that seems far too big to eat in 45 minutes, yet I’ll blink and like always, he’ll have marvelously swallowed it whole before I can even see the bottom of my plate — and missing out on this will be a laugh lost to the skies, muffled by the engine of the plane I’m on.
Will they notice that I’m not there?
Will Juliette think she must make note of my absence, and message me that she must fill me in on her updates? Will Kate furrow her brow when she doesn’t spot my face, gently interrupting conversations to ask where I am? Will Mark make a joke about his endless appetite, but feel that the laugh it received wasn’t as loud because I wasn’t there to hear it?
Will they miss me, when they notice?
And will the light streaming in through the stained glass window of our lunch’s pub catch on someone’s hair in a way I’ll never have clocked before, and my eyes will pick up on the subtle speckles of grey coming in on their head, letting me see them existing and passing through this life in a way I haven’t had the honour to see yet — will I miss this?
Will I miss such a privilege of witnessing the folds of life, right before my eyes? A life that, a year ago, I did not even fathom to know?
If I wasn’t there, was I ever really here? Not “here” as in this one lunch, but “here” as in seen — witnessed, grey hairs and all, as myself too — leaving an imprint in the grass of life when I get up and leave it; a presence so present you can detect when it’s not at the table.
This feeling is new to me: this nagging fear that I’ll miss a fleeting moment, even one so small and so fickle; a feeling that leaves me grasping, a sleep-deprived babe to its pillow, for the mounting memories and milestones I’ve achieved thus far.
A fear that leaves me grateful.
You’d be surprised, but I think this could be what they call “FOMO”.
I spent years and years — saying for years, believing for years that I was incapable of experiencing “FOMO”; said not with exaggeration, but with a knowing and deep truth.
“FOMO”, an acronym, stands for the “fear of missing out”. Initially starting as slang some decade ago, it’s now a common phrase used to epitomize an encompassing epidemic of a headspace. It refers to that dread, anxiety, and self-pity that sinks in when you worry you might be excluded from something — something of value, something of greatness, or just something.
For years, I only knew of these FOMO-feelings by proxy but never through personal, lived emotion. People would tell me about invites to birthdays that conflicted with their schedule, how they were torn to metaphorical shreds trying to rearrange their calendar to be able to say yes — God forbid, they couldn’t say yes. I never understood it: you can’t say yes, it’s not feasible right now, birthdays are annual, you’ll see them another time.
At catch-ups with friends, somebody would begin to detail a family holiday they’d been on, and another attendee would shout “Oh my gosh, stop, stop — you’re giving me FOMO!” Nods of understanding would chorus amongst the group, the story would cease to be told — no one dare illicit the dreaded FOMO. Again, I never understood it: it’s okay, it happened already, I wasn’t there and I know that, you telling the story isn’t going to confront or change anything.
Seeing a photo the following day of a group dinner I had declined going to, I never found myself thinking “Oh, no — were the conversations had some of the most interesting yet?” No, instead I found myself thinking “Cute! I probably would’ve felt out of place, my absence was for the best.”
The crew’s text chat blowing up with eager plans to sort out and lock in the ski trip of the season, I’d find myself admiring it all from an almost-afar, somehow solidifying my status in the chat as spectator rather than participant — eventually flipping my phone screen over and away, thinking nothing more than that I cannot ski, I cannot go, I cannot be anything more than the observer.
I never felt as if I was missing out — and I thought that was a good thing; no, a great thing. I thought I was the lucky one, with no pine to jump in, no dread over what would happen if I didn’t — instead, watching the world pass me by as if it was Netflix’s latest binge-able special.
To me … it always seemed as if to feel FOMO meant to feel a lack of trust in yourself: in your knowledge of your preferences, in your ability to believe you could make the good and the right decisions for yourself. I believed, then, that I must simply really know myself, be so zeroed in on my own needs that no twinge of guilt from a loved one could sway my core foundation. It seemed as if everybody else walked on unsteady ground, jumping from hopeful stone to hopeful stone amidst an earthquake, whilst my structure remained unshakeable.
If anything, I found myself joshing that I suffered from the opposite affliction: “FOBIO”, a “fear of being invited out”. An anxious tug when a kind gesture, an extended branch came my way and it would force me to remind friends, remind family that I preferred to do my own thing. I was always the one exhaling with relief when plans were cancelled last minute, the one vying to meet a friend’s gaze across a party so they could catch me mouth “Should we go?”.
I took a twisted sense of pride in this — this unwavering ability to never fear that, in prioritizing my own intentions, I was sacrificing a moment missed …
Until now.
Not just until London, and the airport, and choosing to take this holiday on this long weekend — but until moving to Dublin, and building a life plump in love, all with tools I hand-carved. Now, I’m constantly riddled with a certainty that if I am not there, I am missing out.
All that time, in my pre-FOMO days, I thought such a malady would be a terrible thing to be caught under; the cold that runs all joy from your nose, your upper lip chapped and dry from desperate wipe after wipe after wipe. I (unfairly) pitied people who vocalized their ongoing battle, feeling distinctly immune to the sickness.
So then, if I now feel the perpetual pangs of FOMO, this must mean I now find myself farther from a life I want, here in Dublin — surely, right? If what I always believed is true — if, for years my decisions were seemingly aligned with trusted desires, my foundation impenetrable to outside offers — I now must have a life built on fragility, and this fear felt is a shake caused by the idea that I am not “living” as I want to … Right?
Yes, and no.
Yes, there is a fragility to this life I have built.
But no, the fear I feel is not a shake of mistrust — but rather, the quiver of a growing pain, as my jaw widens to sink its teeth deeper into this life. It’s a life I have finally gotten to taste, one I refuse to stop living — because to stop and miss any part of it now? To get a lick of it once but never the full spoonful again?
It’s a fearful thought.
Licks on the mind, I had a meal whilst on this London trip that was reminiscent of another I had had in Dublin months prior. The contrast of the two left me contemplating the relationship between intention and triumph, when it comes to FOMO.
In London, a Dublin-based friend (coincidentally there at the same time) and I went for dinner at Shankeys, an Irish-Indian fusion restaurant. Such a fusion sounds bizarre, likely because historically, there is next to no correlation between the two countries save for rampant colonization — but this fusion was a phenomenal combination. The two cultures blended effortlessly, and this shouldn’t actually come as a surprise: the rich and robust vessels of Irish cuisine — briny oysters, warm potatoes, flaky fish — sung well as a backdrop against the vibrant spices of India — punchy masala, the depth of a dried chili, sour and bright kaffir lime.
With the same dining companion several months prior, we’d gone for dinner at Lotus Eaters in Dublin — another fusion restaurant, this time combining Irish produce into Japanese and Korean dishes. And in no way did any of it work — it was a meal I’d never crave again.
Though Lotus Eaters tried to merge the two worlds with quality ingredients (think: wild Atlantic salmon marinated in oolong tea; crispy duck formed to mimic a Korean corn-dog), though they brought them into a shared space and served them up on stunning plates, nothing could mask the fact that they did not meld. The cultures, in concert in one room, bumped elbows and knocked knees.
Come the end of the meal, I was left thinking that, though they had drummed up this unique idea and sourced high-quality products, none of that made a difference when … it seemed like it was all brought together for the wrong reasons.
At Shankeys, the meal had been harmonious — you could taste that everything was right where it was supposed to be, that it had intention. Rather than this merging of worlds, this grouping of traditions coming together in a room only because it was experimental, only to see what would happen, there was an intention to honour the palate at play and a drive to build something beautiful.
While my meal at Lotus Eaters had read as exciting, that was all it was: a thought that seemed exciting. The chatter of the menu sounded intriguing, the combination of the dishes had the potential to be unique — but in action, within those seats and on the tongue, it did not meet its dreamed-up hype.
Shankeys did. Shankeys tasted of thoughtful creation; Shankeys tasted like someone knew it would be good, and such a confident knowing drove their pursuit of it.
These two meals, retrospectively, had me contemplating my feelings of FOMO towards missing that staff lunch in Dublin — and how triumph is built by intention.
I was mourning missing that staff lunch because I knew that lunch would be good; I knew I would feel warmed by the company, I knew I would leave with a smile, like I always did.
Such feelings of FOMO were seldom for me back in Toronto because I, admittedly, always found myself doing things with the wrong intentions. I was, so often, trying to be something, trying to rewrite the recipe of myself — rather than learning who I already was, and finding the natural spaces for her to exist in.
Trying to be trendy — with the jobs I worked, with the school programs I attended (I’m looking at you, 20-year-old Cassandra, who was mere moments away from swapping her program to be curatorial studies instead of practicing photography — but thought it wasn’t “niche” or “hipster” enough); with the outfits I wore. I was Lotus Eaters, crafting meals to see who I could entertain and impress, when I should have been Shankeys, crafting meals out of abundant love and genuine interest.
I see, now: of course I never felt that I missed out on the enjoyment of things, of course I never wished I could be attending when I wasn’t — because I had never been there, as my authentic self, in Toronto. I was some iteration of a me, the only crafting done being the escapement of the actual me. What I’ve learned is pivotal, in loving your life — missing it, when you’re not thickly in it — is that you have to love yourself, too, not just your friends and the activities you do.
This isn’t to say the moments I experience now and the friendships I have here are better than what I knew before; they’re not — I’m what’s become better. See, I liked my friends in Toronto — I loved my friends, and still do; they’re intelligent and uproarious, sweet and sparkling. But I did not like the me I shoved myself into every day alongside them. I did not like the me that showed up at their parties, walked in through their doors, sat at their dinner tables; she didn’t feel worth the experiences, worth the company.
It wasn’t that I was scared to be invited out because it “challenged my true desires, my true intentions”, as I always thought … I was scared to be invited out because I was scared of my own inauthenticity.
It was exhausting to be this me that was both so small and so big, this me that wasn’t sure where she fit in — because she had never made an effort to go looking for it. And so I prayed that plans would be cancelled, fingers were crossed that I would get forgotten in a party’s headcount … So I would not waste another ephemeral day putting on my apron, getting out my tools and becoming consumed with the wretched re-shaping of who I thought I had to be.
Lotus Eaters wasn’t a bad restaurant but, like my life in Toronto, it lacked memorability because it lacked the right intentions. I was trying to pair things together so they would sound good, look good, be appealing to the customers at my soul’s door … But I got the recipe wrong every time, wasn’t in it for the right reasons — and to be the mouth consuming it, I was constantly left yearning for more.
Just as I crave to eat at Shankeys again, I crave to wholeheartedly be invested in the life of authentic intention that I’ve built here, in Ireland. To participate in meals, morsels, moments that have taught me how to not mistake attention as intention; how to not assume that, just because two flavours are together on a plate, that an effortlessness will take place. Intention, connection, they’re needed, fingers interlocked with purpose to form a landing that you could step into — not simply meshed from a place of curiosity, of boredom or experimentation; seeing presence when all that was there was plated proximity.
No longer are my calendar’s plans filled with a wilting desire to impress, to win over, to blend in and now … FOMO has found me in the bountiful space that’s left in my life’s agenda, as I no longer try to fit into what is no longer my shape; roots no longer suffocated, tendrils no longer cut. Today, I let my authenticity find its natural place in this world, allowing myself to sink with uncomplicated ease; a soft and tender sea bream now stuffed to the seams with delicious mint and lime leaf.
In my newfound bounty, I waste no time using my precious tools to construct someone else to present on a platter and call it “fusion”. I arrive on your table in the true, unapologetic state of me — not trendy, not crafted, no longer showing up with 12 forks and 15 spoons, just in case you didn’t like what I tried to pour myself into and hook myself onto for you. And in the mouths nourished at such a table so scrumptious and so easy, there blooms something to miss.
Friendships to miss, communities to miss; routines and schedules I mourn to part with; a woman I like to exist within. I taste good now, here — and, beyond a fear of missing out, the air of my days now carries a potent fear of losing out.
A fear this impressive fish I have caught will slip out of my bare hands, a fear of no longer being able to carry this pride with me — a pride that has been delicious, a taste I will hunger for.
Phone no longer flipped screen down, now I’m frantic when I find out there’s a group chat of several co-workers without me in it; for logistical reasons, I don’t need to be in it — but can I be, please? A please running so deep it’s a gnaw that could grind my teeth down to the gums.
I have a profuse need to know what they’re saying, what memes they share, what resolutions do they come to — because I love them. They’re hilarious and they’re wonderful and to not read the words they’re writing is to be, unequivocally, missing out on what is hilarious and what is wonderful.
Seated at a big table with a large group of friends, I’m situated at the end and the group collected in the middle is talking so much louder than my half of the table. Instead of twinging with annoyance at how loud they are (and while loving the company directly around me), I find myself poking my head over every few moments like a pestering park seagull, their vivacious energy the breadcrumbs I revel in — because I’m so grateful to have found this energy and I never, ever want to starve for it again.
Out for drinks on a Friday night, I’m spent and tipsy and in over my head, but when he asks if I want to go for one more round my mind immediately starts racing — racing with, not panic but pleasure. With fantasies of where else we might go that I haven’t been yet, with lustfulness of what more I could taste and the pungent curiosity of what else could build if I spend one more minute out, one more hour out …
Gone is that inauthentic woman, who Irish-goodbye-d (the irony there isn’t lost on me) every party she ever attended, tucking into bed, empty and alone, at a sensible hour. Eclipsed, you’ll have to drag me from this table as the restaurant closes for the night while I lick the sharp knife of this new life and savour every second.
And, gone with her, gone is my belief that FOMO must be this awful, pathetic thing. Maybe not — not when it’s stirred up within you from a place of appreciation and not provocation, roots stemming from the right and beautiful reasons.
I still don’t get just any and all forms of FOMO. I don’t worry that, by missing out on an event, I won’t have any interesting social media stories to post for a whole weekend; I don’t worry that, when I’m not there, people will inevitably speak poorly of me, as if the only thing preventing this is my stark and stocky form.
No — now, my fears are about never being able to feast on care the way I have so plentifully. I’ve learned how to care about myself, care about the choices I make; to learn this taste has left the saliva of love brimming at the corners of my lips, making me crave it more and then more again. Greedy now, I fear if I don’t get to eat up all these delicious moments and memories — moments as simple as the same staff lunch had every month — I’ll be doomed to hunger for them forever, with no other taste to satiate.
I want to grab that me from a year ago by the shoulders — a me who’s leaving invite texts unopened for days, dreading her deep-seeded need to eventually reply with “Nah, don’t worry about me, I’ll sit this one out!” — shake her and tell her to say yes.
I thought I was the lucky one, back then, never fearing that I was missing out on life — but I see now, how wrong I was. The lucky ones are the ones who want to be at the lunch, be at the birthday, be at the family holiday. The lucky ones are those who yearn; who cherish what they’ve built so much that a fear coats their palate and taints their breath at the slightest hint it could all be slipping away …
Say yes to the birthdays. Say yes to the lunches. Say yes to hearing the stories you weren’t there for. Say yes to going for dinner, even if the menu doesn’t sound great.
On the evening of my first day in London, I was sitting at the bar of the concert venue I was attending. I’d just had an incredible dinner — at MR JI, in Camden Town; I was waiting, wine glass in hand, for the show to start. In this down time, scrolling social media on my phone, I came across posts from the work lunch I had missed that day.
A plump swell in the corner of my eye, I started to tear up. Not with frustration, not with anger — and, maybe, not even with fear.
But with a warmth. A warm feeling of gratitude that I have found love on my own and exactly as I am, and with a feeling of pleasure in knowing them — and knowing I would return home to them, soon.
Days later, commuting back from Dublin’s airport (after catching a flight several hours earlier than planned), those warm tears swelled back up and in as I gazed at the sight of rolling mountains from the taxi’s window; a peaceful respite, after my long weekend in the metropolitan city. The setting sun behind me and FOMO ripe within me, I was reunited with what I had been missing.
If the epidemic of FOMO is a cold caught, then maybe it’s simply because the room was full of loved ones, the table was crowded with friends, and you clasped hands in a spontaneous tenderness as you laughed so rich you were gasping for air; drinking, eating, breathing it all in.
You can’t miss this life if you’re staring right at it, knee deep in it, crushing the cranberries under your feet of it.