From FOMO to FOGO! (Fear Of Going Out)

For the better part of my life I have been quite seriously afflicted with the disease known as FOMO.  Such was my fear of missing a possible interaction with one of the dreamy, greasy haired boys from high school, my parents had long since ruled out grounding as a means of punishment.  They tried it once, and were quite unprepared for the psychological break down that ensued come the weekend.  I didn’t rage, I didn’t complain.  I just sat, silently embroiled in an anxiety so pervasive, it had ripped apart my sense of self and left only a whimpering shell.

I had a classical case of the illness, in that I genuinely feared I might miss out on a dance so divine, a conversation so powerful, that its absence would terminally re-route my destiny.  And boy did I hate hearing about how wonderful the party was afterward.  The one time I didn’t go, that is. 

The weird thing is, as I get older, I find myself strangely freed from the internal pressure to go out.  If anything I actually need alone time, time to recoup, to regroup.  I’m sure it’s got a lot to do with the fact I’m no longer seeking anything in particular.  I have a partner, a dog and a backyard so chockers with vegies we no longer need to buy them.  But it feels more entrenched than that.  Finally, I understand the concept of ‘me time’. 

I still love seeing friends, but I find these days I need to sort of mentally prepare.  I’ve become totally shit at the whole ‘Let’s meet up tonight!’ thing; I need time to switch on social mode.  And this change in me has bred a new found empathy with my shier friends, the ones who have always reported a need to ‘charge the battery’ before a meet up.  

I was sipping wine at my local pub the other day, deep in reflection over the day’s writing, when one of the waiters came over to say hello.  I’ve talked to this guy a few times, so it made complete sense for him to initiate a chat.  But I found myself getting unfairly annoyed at the intrusion, even a bit angry at him for forcing me to make pointless small talk when all I wanted to do was wind down.  I tried to hide it but I’m sure it was plastered all over my face, and in my uneasy body language.  I don’t want to be talking to you!  I’m ashamed to say that this is how I feel most of the time when a social interaction is sprung on me.  

Have my more subdued friends been coping with this forever?  Or have I gone way too far with the whole me time thing and become a rude old man?  

It’s the same at parties.  I love talking to old mates, but when suddenly faced with a surprise guest, I’m all, ‘Oh shit, quick, remember what you have in common with this person.  Come up with a funny anecdote casually referencing past exploits!’  It’s a pressure I’m not accustomed to yet, because I never used to experience it. 

At parties where there are a lot of distant acquittances, I find myself hiding behind my good friends, using them as a human shield against one-on-one interaction.

It’s becoming pretty clear that I need to put some work into recalibrating a good balance.  First I need to figure out what’s causing the change.  Am I becoming less confident?  Less sure of myself?  Or am I letting my anxiety creep into a realm it’s miraculously kept its ugly mug out of thus far- my social life?  Whatever it is, I’m going to try to get to the heart of it so I can work through it.  It’s one thing to enjoy spending time at home, another entirely to be afraid of going out.