Dear FOMO,
It’s a normal day here at McGill. A mix of spring rain, summer’s sunshine, autumn’s colorful decor, and winter’s chill; the perfect recipe to a normal Montreal September day. No exceptions, not for the new nor returning students of Montreal’s proud red and white, never-cancels-class-not-even-during-a-snowstorm university. The perfect homecoming.
As the hammering power drills and incessant beeping of tractors welcome us back to another semester, I felt it was time to write you, my dear FOMO; the source of all my social anxieties and suffocating pressure to go through an “authentic college experience”. And no, it is not a love letter, sorry to disappoint. I just wanted you to know how I feel, about you, about me, and everything in between.
There are a lot of pressure that comes with being a college student: what classes to take, which library to study in, whether or not I can finish this 10 page assignment due in the next 6 hours, and how many alarms I can snooze before my roommate finally chucks a pillow to my face. But one of the most crushing pressures that college students experience, in my personal opinion, is you. FOMO. Fear Of Missing Out.
You are on my mind constantly, like a bad case of a schoolgirl crush. Most nights I’m at home, lounging on my bed, procrastinating readings and assignments, scrolling through the events and parties announced on Facebook, or zooming in and out on my friends’ YOLO moments on Instagram with their infamous red plastic cups and the duck faces and/or rap squats that I’m sure started out ironic…until it wasn’t. I stalk you on any social media that I can, refusing to leave my bed, then feeling bad about myself for doing so.
Maybe you can argue that I’m the problem here. You’re probably thinking, “If you feel so bad about not going out, then why don’t you just go out?” You want to know why? Come here, I’ll tell you. Come closer…
Because I don’t want to.
And let me tell you an even bigger secret…Not everyone wants to, either.
I know, what a shocker. You just make me feel like I want to. You have your charms: dancing the night away like the weight of the world (or at least this week’s exams) is off our shoulders, drunken mistakes and stolen kisses that we tell ourselves we’ll forget in the morning (but never really do, and never really want to), and unforgettable nights that we think we’ll remember forever in momentos of blurry photos and even blurrier memories. You’re like the photoshopped, airbrushed models on magazines. Like damn, you’re hot and perfect, but I know it’s not real, and trying to recreate that in real life is just pain and sorrow.
But at the same time, I don’t know if you’re all that toxic. Even as I write this bad review of our relationship, I can’t tell you that I hate you. It’s hard to hate you, since I know you aren’t always the evil incarnate, manifestation of the crippling fear that I might be wasting my youth. Sometimes, you’re nice. You’re the tough friend who tells it like it is, no beating around the bush. The times I want to talk to that cute guy in class, say hi to that prof whose eyes I always avoid when passing on the streets. And on the days that I do want to go out, dress all fancy, dig out those heels from the dusty corner of the closet…thank you. Because you’re always there next to me, telling me I’ll regret it if I don’t. And you’re right…some of the time. Robin to my Batman, Bonnie to my Clyde, the Hound to my Arya. You, my dear FOMO, are good in moderation. Just don’t try to steal my spotlight and change me.
Because, more than I fear missing out on events I know I won’t enjoy once I get there, now I fear more about missing out on what I want and what makes me feel good.
And leave those poor freshmen alone. I know, they smell of impressionable youth and vitality, and they’ll be desperate to embrace you and make you feel wanted and needed. Don’t be the asshole that tries to take advantage. Keep your hands off. Just be there for them when they need some courage. Because what they say is wrong: nice guys don’t finish last.
I told you in the beginning that this wasn’t a love letter, and it’s not. But I want to let you know that this is also not a Dear John letter; I am not saying goodbye…partly because I know you’ll never really go away. So I am writing this letter to tell you I no longer wish to be controlled by you. I accept you, and I write to you to tell you that you must now accept me. So please, if you don’t mind, let me be.
I am quiet, I am awkward, I don’t like noisy crowds or places with loud music. I would much rather, on most nights, change into sweats (different from the ones I most definitely wear to class), order sushi from UberEats, crack open a $10 bottle of red from SAQ, and binge Peaky Blinders on Netflix This does not make me less of a college student “living life to the fullest”; I am not wasting my youth. And I am not ashamed. No one should be. There’s no rule on how to spend a Friday night. So, those of you who enjoy the quiet college life, those who cocoon themselves in their blankets after a long day of droning profs and endless slides, here’s to you. And FOMO, relax, have a seat. I’m taking the wheels.
Signed,
Your Mary Sue
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