It was never my intention to hide in the toilet. There was lots going on outside: highbrow small talk and top-tier networking; free drinks, air kisses, and cold canapés that – I’d quickly discovered, following glances – were very much, like my fellow attenders, there only for show. The gallery was filled, I’d been assured, with fashion figures and media leaders. I was lucky to have been invited to this salon, one of the hosts had informed me, generously. Exactly what a “salon” is, I’m still unsure.
Deep down, I just didn’t want to be there. Only 90 minutes previously I’d been watching Gogglebox and scoffing Pringles in bed. But I went along out of some sense of duty. Perhaps a desire to broaden my horizons, or a compulsion to step outside my comfort zone, where I had become too safe and snug. Now here I was, sitting in a locked cubicle counting down the minutes before I could leave without seeming rude.
All too often I’d go through this same, stupid motion. Preoccupied by getting older, and worrying that I was wasting my finite time on Earth lying on the sofa, I’d panic that before I knew it, I’d be staring down death, full of regret. Put bluntly, I’d get a serious case of Fomo (fear of missing out). This feeling tends to peak in Januarys when, rather than hibernate, as would be eminently sensible, I cajole myself into believing exposure therapy will somehow improve me. I say yes to park jogs, parties and once, a ceilidh. But this year, I’m refusing to be sucked in again – I’m determined to embrace saying yes to saying no to things I simply don’t want to do.
For most of my young adult life, I latched on to the idea that – generally speaking – I was quite boring, fairly lazy, a healthy dose of dull. I’d be mortified if anyone gave me those labels; after all, I’m pretty good value at weddings, funerals and barmitzvahs (and I do attend most of the ones I’m invited to) – but I still had a growing feeling that I wasn’t making enough of life’s precious moments.
When did the Fomo start? At school, reports often featured the words “must try harder” – and I suppose the idea stuck. There’d been a relationship, my first of substance, where circumstances meant I internalised the idea that I was dreary and unexciting. Friends would flock to underground parties and dance until mid-morning and I’d drag myself out to join them, moving miserably around the darkness until I was too exhausted to continue, or too drunk to care. It’s not that there were rules over what I did or didn’t enjoy; it’s more that I’d force myself to go out, and stay out – whether or not I actually wanted to – out of obligation to my future, dying self.
In short, a pattern developed. Life was punctuated by me doing things I didn’t really want to, because otherwise I’d berate myself for doing just enough, sometimes too little, and almost never too much. That’s precisely how I’d ended up at this art show.
Arriving alone, I started talking, reluctantly, to a serious man named Simon. He told me his opinions; we stared at some art. As soon as was not unkind, I excused myself, and beelined to the bathrooms. I sat there for a while, staring at the wall. Maybe 10 minutes later, I returned to the action. There was a discussion about poetry, or was it pottery? The bar ran out of white wine. It felt like everyone was there for the same reason as me – because they felt as if they should be. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one having a godawful time.
Recently, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about that evening. I’m coming to realise, slowly but surely, that I’d like to reimagine how I spend my time. All sorts of things have contributed to this contrition: dead grandparents; new nephews; approaching 30. Growing a little older has made me less inclined to do anything that feels void of all pleasure and joy. Then there are the complications of Covid. I’m lucky to be fit and healthy, but now each event – birthday, work breakfast, day trip – comes with a complex new set of calculations related to my health and safety: is it worth the risk?
I’m trying to apply the same thinking to whether I’ll actually enjoy something, too. That means accepting invitations, but also politely declining – and making these decisions based on what I want to do, not what I feel I should. I’m still open to new experiences, people and places. Only now I admit defeat calmly, rather than feeling shameful if I throw in the towel. I might not always know what I’ll love or what will feel soul-destroying. But I’m trying to ignore the pressure to be proactive, and instead listen to my gut. It’s harder than it sounds.
In his 2012 book Missing Out, psychoanalyst Adam Phillips questions what it means to consider the life unlived. “The myth of our potential,” he writes, “can make of our lives a perpetual falling-short … Now someone is asking us not only to survive but to flourish, not simply or solely to be good but to make the most of our lives.”
The premise of Phillips’ position has never been truer. Ours is a society consumed and fixated by the effective use of time. Social media platforms often face blame for turning their users into sad, anxious scrollers, and for good reason. But the fact these sites also demand that we are constantly productive is often overlooked. Instagram insists we have something to show; Twitter requires us to always think something. We live in the “experience economy”, where value is derived from doing. The pandemic has taught us that we don’t know what’s around the corner; to make the most of now. It feels as if some teenagers plough more effort into their TikToks than I have into my entire career.
It feels something of an obsession, to be efficient not only in our work, but with our leisure time, too. Because Yolo, far from being a harmless catchphrase, – made famous by Drake in 2011’s The Motto – is actually an insidious idiom; another iteration of the toxic “do one thing that scares you” and “make every moment count” nonsense which has slowly come to poison our daily lives.
I’m by no means advocating for total abstinence from ambition. Climb mountains! Learn languages! Tell me your fascinating stories about doing so over wine. It’s just that maybe making the most of every moment can also come from giving up rather than grinning and bearing it. It’s all well and good to try new things, but I’m trying to regularly remind myself that MasterChef is pretty great (as is watching YouTube compilations in my pants and scrolling through Scottish homes on Rightmove). It’s early days, but I’ve already noticed I’m feeling calmer, more comfortable.
Of course, this is all a reflection of the stage of life I find myself at: with no kids or caring responsibilities. No doubt there will come a day when I would make a deal with the devil to once again have the chance to pay £8 for a can of Red Stripe to drink while bopping about on sticky floors. But for now, at least, I’m free to make this opting-out choice.
One weekend late last year, my friends, my boyfriend and I rented a place by the seaside. On the Friday, we merrily trotted between quaint country pubs. Our Saturday, it had been mutually agreed by all attending, was to be spent walking. A proper hike. Through battering winds, we’d march for six to seven hours across the coastal cliffs of Sussex. Ninety minutes later, we’d barely made a dent in our proposed path and I was exhausted. I checked my phone, and realised that 30 minutes inland we’d get to a bus stop which would take us home.
Usually, I’d have marched on, metaphorically sat in that toilet. Instead, I announced I quite fancied taking the bus. A look of relief spread across everyone’s faces. Turns out we all wanted to throw in the towel. And so we did.
