Noun: Short for “fear of missing out,” describing the feeling of being left out or the anticipation of being left out.
It can also be used as a verb.
When used in a sentence: “Lauren FOMOed so hard when she missed the Red Sox winning the World Series at Fenway this year.”
This should come as no surprise, but I felt so much FOMO this week. Not that this was a secret in any way because I told anyone who’d ask (and most people didn’t even have to ask for me to tell them).
As pretty much any media report on Boston’s World Series victory will tell you: the win was huge for the city.
It’s so strange to know the city is at such a high when just six months ago, it was at such a low. It was even stranger to not be there to experience that high.
When the bombs went off on Boylston St. six months ago, I was working on the city desk at the Boston Globe. The entire day, I had been looking forward to my shift ending at 3:30–I was missing out on much of Marathon Monday because I was at work, but I planned to make the most of the rest of the day by meeting up with friends and, per tradition, drinking heavily. That all changed at roughly 2:50 when the police scanner on my editor’s desk erupted with noise. The next six hours, not to mention the rest of the week, were a scary, exhilarating blur.
There really is something incredible about the city of Boston. This strange little city full of people with crazy accents manages to get under your skin and stick with you.
Sure, I like London, but I love Boston. And after living and working in the city during that week in the middle of April, I felt so close to the city that I totally understood wanting to fight someone for saying something terrible about Boston.
I think it’s that connection that kept me up until 4 a.m. on a work night, glued to Twitter to see the Red Sox clinch the final World Series game. I admit, I’m not truly a Red Sox die-hard. I can’t name more than two or three players on the roster and I certainly didn’t go to a place in London that showed the game. But I know what the team means to the city, because let’s face it. You can’t have Boston without the Red Sox.
It’s strange to be in a special, once-in-a-lifetime place but just want to go home. Boston may not be my hometown, but after this spring, it is my home. And there is no other way to put this: It truly sucked not to be one of the thousands cheering for the team on Boylston Street, snapping an Instagram or two like my friend Meredith. I just wanted to be shipping up to Boston, not sipping tea at Selfridges.
Nevertheless, I’ll be home soon. I’ve only got six weeks left across the pond, and I’m set to enjoy them properly. And let’s be honest, spring training really isn’t that far off.