Greetings from beautiful CT, where I’m fortunate enough to be working in pajamas all day and I have a gnarly bruise on my chin after a misguided attempt at the crow pose in yoga this morning. Mama and Papa B are off at a wedding in beautiful Maryland this weekend, so I volunteered to watch our pooch, a crazy half golden/half rottweiler mix who barks at everything and loves to snuggle. I love weekends at home, raiding the extensive wine cellar and the magic beer fridge (it’s always filled with beer. Always. Even after you drink all the beer, you wake up and it’s filled with beer), running paths that used to be the school bus route, stopping for a drink at the only bar in town. I love that I’ve grown up in the same town with the same people, inevitably running into at least a few of them every time I’m here. And yet, with all of these fantastic traits, I’ll still sprint back to the city on Sunday as quickly as possible. Is it concern for little miss, separation anxiety from the city or the fact that I just remembered I’ve had laundry at my drop-off place since Wednesday? Of course not. It’s pure, unadulterated, single LB FOMO.

FOMO, or fear of missing out, is one of the new buzzwords used in the media to try and explain millennials, like “Muppie” and “YOLO.” It’s pretty self-explanatory, and I’ve got it bad. There have been a few weekends where I’ve been enjoying a shopping spree on mama B followed by a feast of the best fried seafood on the east coast, and I’ll see a picture of my lovely friend M and partner-in-crime R outside with their dogs, and I’m desperately wishing I were back in my apartment, running out the door to join them. FOMO doesn’t make any sense, and it’s useless to wish you were somewhere else when you can’t be. FOMO takes away from enjoying the moment you’re in, something I’ve been practicing for weeks now. And yet it didn’t stop me from feeling hopelessly jealous as M and R both talked up their couples retreat to PA this weekend, wishing I hadn’t promised to relegate myself out of state for a few days.

Work has been so busy lately that I almost forgot this weekend was happening, nearly forgetting to pack for the weekend before walking out the door of my apartment. I didn’t even allow myself to enjoy it when I walked in the door in CT, beaten down by a long day of demands, barely excited to see the dog who couldn’t contain herself when she saw me, not registering the lovely bottle of wine mama B had opened and the amazing fish dinner papa B had prepared. I was annoyed I’d be missing a weekend at home, annoyed it wasn’t Friday, just annoyed and annoyed and angry and filled with so much FOMO it started taking over.

I put myself to bed early, trying to convince myself it’d be better in the morning and instead I just ended up staring at the ceiling: not tired, not happy, and still away from my NYC apartment. About one in the morning, I heard a scratch at the door and in walked our dog, cautiously peeking around the door like a toddler after a nightmare. I smiled and told her to come up, and in a second she was snuggled right next to me, snoring happily with her head on my leg. Such a small gesture made me feel immensely better, and in another minute I was sound asleep.

She's helping (kind of?)

She’s helping (kind of?)

It’s all perspective, in the end. Because right now I think everyone else should have FOMO for my weekend with this adorable pooch, in a big house all alone, with no plans, no obligations and nothing standing between me and my parent’s extensive wine collection.