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Circle, Circle, Dot, Dot, Dot

Have you heard of FOMO? People all over the world are contracting FOMO faster than you can say ring around the rosie. It’s highly contagious. Not only is there no cure, but you can’t even manage the symptoms. There’s not even a homeopathic treatment available. Given it’s current rate of infection, the CDC has dire predictions regarding this disease. The World Health Organization issued a statement that reads like a panic alert. FOMO is spreading like wildfire. There is simply no stopping it. Virus? Bacteria? Who knows. I have a secret, though, that I’m only sharing with you guys. I know what cures FOMO! See, I had it. I was a terminal case. But, I cured it! What’s FOMO, you ask? It’s the Fear of Missing Out. What’s my amazing cure? I turned 50. Poof, it was gone.

There’s a reason FOMO is known as “The Silent Clique Killer”. Why, I remember when I first contracted FOMO back in 1980. I realized there was a problem when I went shopping for jeans. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, was wearing Luv-it jeans in the early 80’s. The pocket designs were to die for (FOMO pun totally intended). There were jeans with colored jewels that looked like gemstone fleur-de-lis. There were pockets with gemstones that looked like mandalas. But, we really couldn’t afford Luv-its. My family was more concerned with energy conservation, a new tiller for next year’s garden, or re-slating all of the pool tables at Daddy’s pool hall. Yet, not wanting me to catch the as yet named disease that was turning all the tweens and teens into fashion robots with horrific malaise, my mom did the only thing she could. She made me jeans by hand (egad) with (wait for it) clear jeweled back pockets. CLEAR JEWELS? Mom, how could you? As if recovery was even an option at that point, I was exposed to a more contagious strain of FOMO when I wasn’t invited to the Jr High party of the season. Doubly infected, my paralysis set in quickly. Only able to writhe atop my waterbed for hours at a time, the hallucinations took hold. I could see them at the party, the popular girls in their authentic Luv-its. They were mocking me. “She has homemade jeans with CLEAR STONES? Gag me with a spoon!” It took me months to recover into a hopeful remission.

 

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