On the Beach: Fear of missing out vs Fear of being out
Remember when I ate a meal in a restaurant with another human a few weeks ago? Well, I did another crazy thing - I watched a movie! In a movie theatre!
Regular readers of my blog and watchers of my videos will know COVID has not been easy for me. Not the isolation. That’s been just fine. Seems I can be alone forever. Never bored. Not lonely. Just alone.
But as restrictions have lifted at the end of each wave, I’ve sat on the shore listening attentively to - not just listening but actively seeking out - the ongoing medical tsunami warnings while everyone else has rushed back into the surf. I’ve watched them cavorting in the water feeling I’m missing out on fun and that there is something terribly wrong with me for not having the guts to don my suit and get wet again. I’ve also felt the judging, mocking eyes of those in the water — What is wrong with that woman? Why is she so scared? And yes, I’ve been judging right back - Why do they care so little for the vulnerable in our society? Why are they are prepared to let the health care system crash for their own personal needs? Have they no self-control?
By the time I’ve mustered my nerve to put a toe in, it’s too late: everyone is forced back out by the public health lifeguards warning of the next wave about to crash. Re-imposed COVID precautions have frustrated me - damn, I missed my chance to have a meal out or see a friend. But they’ve relieved me too. With restrictions in place, I don’t have to angst over braving the watery world, but even more so, no-one else can either. Nothing’s happening for me to miss out on.
With the removal of mask and vax mandates in March, I have found myself once again on the increasingly underpopulated beach. I’ve occasionally stood up from my comfortable hole in the sand to test my sea legs again, atrophied from months of disuse. One such test was the trip to the movies. I chose a movie partner who seemed cautious like me and a location, time, and film unlikely to attract many people. There I was, in the TIFF Lightbox at 7 pm on a Saturday night watching What Will People Say, part of TIFF’s Nordic feminism series, this one by a Norwegian/Pakistani director. A brilliant heart-wrenching film, a darker version of Netflix’s pandemic hit, Never Have I Ever, addressing issues that emerge when children of immigrant parents walk, and fall off, the line between cultures. The choice was excellent for more than just the quality of the film though. There were very few people in the audience and I got a chance to feel like I was living in the world again. The kiddie pool, perhaps, rather than the ocean. But a start.
That weekend trip downtown made me reflect on a phenomenon human resource types are writing about now called proximity bias, a product of the new hybrid workplaces. Apparently there’s evidence that people who are in the office more are favoured over those who are still primarily working from home. They get the ear of their boomer bosses who are mostly working in the office, which results in receiving the more desirable work assignments.
I suggest this proximity bias applies not just in work. On that Saturday night trip downtown, I felt a geographic proximity bias. It was the first time in two years I’d been out of Weston in the evening. I took the commuter train to Union Station that I took every day for years to get to work. It was busier than I’d expected, as was the core of the city. Like that bright-eyed girl from Wingham 30 + years ago, I strode the streets excited to be there but not feeling a part of it. Not scared but apprehensive. I watched a family of tourists take a photo of the CN Tower, with its lights shining brightly through the March fog, and thought ‘oh hell, I want that photo too.’ I felt more like them than the self-assured urbanite I used to be. So unlike the strong connection I have to Weston now where my footprints mark every inch of every sidewalk.
I see proximity bias in social circles too. Those who have kept seeing each other during the pandemic are tighter with each other, excluding others who have been more isolationist. Makes sense. Friendships strengthen through shared experience and if you’re not doing stuff together there’s less chance for that to happen. I’ve certainly experienced it - friendships that have lasted decades have withered in the last two years. Maybe they are dormant and will find new life one day. Maybe not. Different orientations to risk and relationships to the collective good, have perhaps exposed other, perhaps more fundamental, differences.
I’ve developed personal connections through a writing group that began last fall meeting virtually each month to read and critique each other’s work. I’ve shared more intense personal stuff with these five women who, spread across Canada and the US, I’d never have met without a pandemic. This seems to turn the notion of proximity bias in workplaces on its head: despite no physical proximity, these are newly strong bonds. I’ve also developed phone, Twitter, and Zoom relationships with caregivers, professional contacts, and people in the grief community, whom I didn’t know at all before the pandemic. All from the comfortable piece of sand I’ve occupied far from the crashing waves. Thank you, FOBO.
But the FOMO remains real. Despite a sixth wave gathering steam, I am planning another trip out into the world this week. This one’s a biggie. I feel I should not reveal the wheres, the whens, and the whats. It’s a weird by-product of the pandemic — after two years of feeling judged for beaching myself, I am now worried about the judgment from my pandemic-cautious friends if they hear I am venturing out. Also fear of the judgment of my adventuresome friends who may wonder why is she choosing that, but not hanging out with me? Perhaps the answer to that is that I can imagine the people around me will be thrice vaxxed, N95d, and eager to maintain as much distance as is possible. Just like me. Yet I’m still scared shitless.
All this written from my Weston beachfront property. Hope everyone makes it safely back to shore.
