Major FOMO

FOMO is exactly what I felt while writing this, Freaking Out More Often than usual. I was pining for all that fun my peers incessantly posted about; instead, I got an unwelcome guest: Shingles. More desperate for interaction than any fear of losing my eye (the hiding place of my hostile host), I FaceTimed my doctor.

Dr: This could have been an email.

Me: Aaand how are you? And, why did you answer?

I caught him up on the emotional drama that was harshing my mellow and showed him shhhh shhhh shhhingles…

Dr: I asked what I can help you with today.

Me: I woke up like this

Also Me: Do you make house calls?

Eventually, after some witty banter (on my part) and very intrusive questions (on his part), he prescribed me “Acyclovir” for my Shingles with “no follow up appointments necessary.” I guess he wasn’t that interested. Couldn’t even get a second date even though I was paying (my insurance sucks). It was most likely the the lines of puss on my back. Apparently, that’s worse than a tramp stamp. Shingles flare ups can be caused by stress, meaning I now had a physical manifestation of my FOMO.

I wasn’t ready for the world to reopen so fast. My body was literally rejecting “going back to normal.” I’m not normal I wasn’t normal before this pandemic and I’m certainly way less normal after spending a year with the voices in my head.

I’ve always had high functioning anxiety. So, I create drama that isn’t there (which means I’m a horror to date). You know what they say, “Crazy in the street but a freak in the sheets.” It’s a skill, actually. I can make something out of literally anything. Probably why I’m newly single… also probably why I’m currently taking applications for new friends. We should make it culturally appropriate to ask “what kind of drugs are you on?” before any small talk. Anti depressants, beta blockers, cocaine… this is crucial information… I need to know if the cocktail of chemicals in your brain can mix with the adrenaline swirling through mine. And, if you aren’t on any, I’ll have you on something in no time. It’s that old timeless classic, “she drove me to drink.” I don’t think sober people can handle me, or they’re just smart enough not to try.

Listen, it’s not like I hadn’t “prepared” for things to reopen. I’d practiced making friends on random people at the Venice Beach Boardwalk. It turns out, if you walk up to people and start talking to them, I guess they think you’re homeless or crazy. I did make $17 though… about the cost of my daily Starbucks habit. Most of my drink orders have five words or more. Sometimes I just make up things, I’m that chick. I’ll have a venti rainbow spice mocha loco harry potter drizzle with two shots of witches brew frappe latte pumpkin puppy.

During those dark early days of the pandemic (which were also my first days of sobriety) I used caffeine to feel something… anything. It was a toss up each day…Will this Cup ‘O Joe give me a massive panic attack or will I literally turn into Beyonce, dancing in my living room? Who the hell knows?…See, I like to live life on the edge. I was so bored I was willing to give myself panic attacks.

Now, overly caffeinated, invited to way too many social engagements to commit to one, I sit alone scrolling instagram with adrenalized FOMO. See, if it were just two or three invites, I could go. Because, there wouldn’t be a choice I had to make. With ten invites over one weekend, I honestly can’t say if I want to paint technicolored glitter on my face and rave, or sing to the sad Dylan cover band, experience orgasmic gastronomy, or meet (what could be) the future love of my life…It’s just too hard to choose. Do I want true love? Do I want to “look so crazy right now?”* Do I need to expand my pallet? I DON’T KNOW! I want to do it all, so I end up doing none.

And, then I told my doctor that I couldn’t even decide which color to die my hair, so I “refuse to change my hair color.”

I did get really dressed up recently, though. My ex-boyfriend was coming to drop off my stuff. I think that counts as socializing. I should have taken a photo and asked the Internet. #seeIhavefriendstoo #wellnotreallymyfriend,myexboyfriend #glam

I set an alarm for six am, giving me three hours to look “fuck you” hot before he arrived. However, I couldn’t sleep all night, thinking I’d miss my alarm. So, by three am, I decided to just get up and glam. Never have existential crises before the sun rises with mascara that could run. I cried to every breakup song on the planet, coating my pain with donut fillings. When he knocked, I’d forgotten what time it even was, opening the door with mascara dripping down my cheeks and a face full of powdered sugar. If there was ever a way to give an ex satisfaction or closure, this was it. I finally passed out in a pile of my things, a Bearclaw hanging from my hand, Adele stuck in the background. “Hello from the other siiiiiiide…” #Undatable

So, with Shingles, and prescribed “relaxation,”** I’ve given up on “returning to normal.” At least for this week. I’ve traded my FOMO for pretending to look cool on the Internet. It’s important to keep up appearances. Isn’t that why we go out anyway? For the gram? My back itches.

*Vintage Beyonce lyric for the GenZer’s who are culturally deprived.

**Trying to not stress is extremely stressful. It’s like me telling you, don’t think of an elephant no matter what you do. Well, now all you can think of is an elephant, right? Ugh, Doctors. Sorry about the elephant in your head.