Not a single free weekend: it's not FOMO, it's fear of losing social capital
How easy and reductionist the world becomes when we have acronyms to define ourselves. That's it: we have FOMO, as quick and simple as it is to say it
“I don’t have a free weekend until August”. You will have heard it or said it yourselves, as if a packed calendar were synonymous with good social and work health. We stuff ourselves with tasks and plans, myself included. And they reproach us for being too weak, for being victims of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), for being afraid of missing something, for seeming like we don’t know how to be alone, still, at home. How easy and reductive the world becomes when we have an acronym to define us. That’s it: we have FOMO, as quick and simple as saying it. Do we really only need four letters to crystallize the feeling of a whole generation?
My mother always told me: “You don’t have to say yes to everything. You don’t have to go to everything”. First, it was with friends, as a consolation for my disappointments. My infinite, exhausting commitment often did not coincide with that of my peers. And it was normal. Now, I understand that this commitment was – in part – a cowardly response to my fears: fear of expectations, of not pleasing, of the possibility that they wouldn’t count on me again. I said – and often say – yes to everything, because I didn’t understand another way of relating, because I aspired to unconditional acceptance, as if that were the only way.
And after friends, work came. “Nothing is free, Alba,” my father had repeated to me. I am –like so many friends and girls I will never know– a daughter of this time and of one of those homes where effort has become another member of the family. At home, we have always celebrated everything, every small achievement, to the point of making me ashamed, aware of the mere three or four things we had guaranteed. The rest was yet to be conquered. At home, we have never taken anything for granted, and that is a feeling that sticks to your skin, accompanying you in everything you do.
I feel that I cannot afford to lose anything, not even a thought. That's why, when I'm in yoga class, in the savasana pose with a lavender-scented eye mask, I refuse to clear my mind. During the class, two or three ideas come to me, and to remember them, I repeat them in a loop. I don't have my phone with me now, but as soon as we finish, I'll write them down. I cannot abandon my mind and concentrate only on separating my vertebrae, which is what the teacher asks us to do. I cannot get rid of my thoughts: what if I lose an important one?
The feeling of scarcity is a sign of my generation, much more complex and, at the same time, careful than FOMO. We have taken the baton of opportunities and, like a burning flame, we grasp them so tightly that they burn us. Perhaps, in the end, they were poisoned candy. For a time, the idea that any of my actions was transcendental and could invalidate everything I had achieved until then anguished me. Not attending a birthday, rejecting a job offer, or deciding to stay home on a weekend. I thought I was born with the possibility of abundance and that I was closing the taps; that I had to preserve the little heritage I had provided for myself, even if it meant dysfunctional friendships, unpaid job offers, or plans I didn't want to do.
In reality, everything is more perverse than it seems. What many of us fear is the loss of social capital (and even cultural capital). Generalized precarity has made us fear, even, a devaluation of our leisure and our relationships, but from a utilitarian point of view. A few weeks ago, Pol Guasch was talking about work and creative work in particular, "where the promise of future success still operates strongly: it would be impossible to sustain oneself in the cultural world without the spurious belief that one day everything will be fine." And I ask myself if this precarity doesn't turn everything into a strategy, if we think of our weekends as necessary tools to achieve what we want. Because now I no longer know if I want to meet you because I like you or because I would like to be in your project, or if I am interested in the poster of this festival or the idea of being seen there, because I know everyone will be there.
I admire people who know they are exactly where they should be, who do things genuinely, and not as a result of an anguish that has completely atrophied their judgment. It exhausts me to hear everywhere that I should be somewhere else, wherever that may be; that I must constantly strive to find a better place in life; that I am missing the last train. If we are in a bar, I am more aware of the conversations I am missing. If we are at a concert, my mind searches for the places from which I could best see the stage. If we are on a project, I think of all the ones I am letting pass. Because luck, destiny, or chance do not exist. Everything depends on oneself. And for oneself, nothing is ever enough.
