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On FOMO

 "We really have to visit the JK Rowling bookstore."


My husband and I dislike JK Rowling's work; there is frigid, driving rain; there is a lengthy line outside the bookstore; you have to pay to get in.

But FOMO is strange. You can observe that all the tourists look really, really miserable--but, still, you want to have the experience they're having, because otherwise you will MO. You. Will. Miss. Out.

Marc and I walk to the Livraria Lello, the third greatest bookstore in the world. (Whatever that means.) A hostile, underpaid employee screams at us; the screams are in reference to a "ticketing kiosk." Behind us, visitors from Germany begin to toss insults at the store employee, and the screams get louder.

My heart races. "Run!" I whisper to my husband. "Run to the kiosk!" But the scanning process is slow; your fingers slip as you attempt to type your billing info into an iPhone; rainwater makes the iPhone grumpy. The line grows; Saigon is falling; this chopper will soon be leaving the helipad.

The upshot is that I abandon the Livraria Lello. I regret having wasted fifteen minutes--but I think my "abort! abort!" cries were among the great decisions in my life.

Marc and I wander back to our hotel, where we begin discussing Prince Harry's confessional tirade.

"It sounds like sleazy trash--entitled whining. It sounds like this guy thinks his wife's lip gloss woes are on par with Chernobyl, or the Spanish flu. Also, the best bits are already published, for free, in the paper...."

Nevertheless, I think I will end up buying this book. Otherwise, it's like the rest of the world is attending a fabulous party--and I'm alone in my living room. I'm missing out.
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