Skip to main content

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.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...
3 comments
Read more

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...
1 comment
Read more

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...
1 comment
Read more