FOMO is a recent term for a well-established feeling. The fear of missing out. FOMO strikes anytime that you make a decision that precludes the possibility of other options, which is practically all of the time. When I left for France, I was distressed by the certainty of future FOMO. I feared missing weddings, births, holidays, and the less-celebrated but equally important daily pleasures; laying on the couch next to my sisters, drinking 16 ounce coffees, being a proficient eavesdropper. Unfortunately, staying in America gave me another vague, but compelling feeling of FOMO. I couldn’t even imagine the things that I would be missing out on if I didn’t leave.
Even though it has the qualities of a good abbreviation (fun to say, internal rhyme,) I take issue with FOMO, because it doesn’t really extend far enough. FOMO only refers to the fear of missing out, but not to the confirmation of said fear. When I came to France, I was not only afraid of missing out, I was certain I would, and I have. This past Thursday was Thanksgiving, and the knowledge of everything I was missing out on had me feeling “fomotional,” which I have decided is the extension of FOMO, but which is more classically referred to as loss.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and it is also distinctly American. It is not observed outside of North America (which makes sense) and it cannot really be properly replicated. The bizarre pre-made staples of the Thanksgiving table don’t exist here, and I am not a deft enough home cook to make my own cranberry sauce. It was this thought that really stirred my fomotional pot on Thursday; the absence of King’s Hawaiian Rolls and endless Libby’s products made me feel profoundly sad. It wasn’t the lack of their physical presence or taste (even though King’s Hawaiian Rolls are obviously delicious,) it was the fact that I couldn’t really talk about these items with anyone. No one knows what I’m talking about. For some reason, this silly thought wielded an enormous feeling of loneliness.
Maybe though, that is the root of all homesickness. There are things that we miss, physically, like processed foods that can only be made from harvested amber waves of grain, but more than that, we miss the cultural knowledge and acceptance of these items, the familiarity. Fomotions were running high as I sat on a park bench, prowling social media for glimpses of people’s Thanksgiving tables and, inexplicably, listening to “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” by John Denver, which has nothing to do with my life in the United States, but seemed broadly on theme.
This moment, wallowing in public, listening to John Denver on repeat, is probably the lowest that I have had in my time in France. Luckily I was interrupted by the presence of at least 100 children, suddenly freed from their classroom and running up and down the bike path where my bench was located. After a while I decided it was too cold to keep feeling sorry for myself outside, and I had better do it in a coffee shop. As I was walking, a young girl ran up to me and asked me if I would like to join them. “No thank you,” I told her in French. Surprised by my accent, she asked me if I was English. “I’m from the United States,” I answered. “Did you come to France because Donald Trump is your president,” she asked, without a moment’s hesitation. “Yes,” I answered, with equal speed, and then laughed very hard.
I am so thankful for that very smart young girl, who reminded me that if I’m going to miss a Thanksgiving, it might as well be during the Trump years. Because I didn’t have a platform (table) to cement the gratitude that I feel, I wanted to make a short list of things that I am thankful for, some of which I would have missed out on if I had stayed in America, some that I was able to bring with me, and some that I miss very much indeed.
This year I am thankful for:
My family, who deep-fried a turkey this Thanksgiving and all lived to tell the tale.
My roommates, who made a Thanksgiving meal with me on Friday, complete with a Spanish tortilla, a turkey gratin, sweet potatoes without marshmallows, and a bottle of wine from our region.
My students, who ran into the classroom in order to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving, with genuine excitement.
My friends, who celebrated all over the country this year, and who are perfect.
The country of France (and my number one Zaddy, Emmanuel Macron,) for letting me live here.
The town of Colmar for selling hot wine, which is a balm for all ailments. Except for medical ones.
The band Maroon 5, who has been good for so long, and I am just grateful for the consistency.
OUIOUTHERE 