Lyzz Repa

F.O.M.O. is the fear of missing out; missing out on an event, group hangout, the basic socializing moments of life. Personally, I couldn’t care any less about missing out. Actually, I want to miss out. As much of a social butterfly that I may appear to be, I really don’t like people. Seriously, I don’t. Nothing brings me as much enjoyment as being home listening to music or reading a good book, alone. Not a digital book either, the old-fashioned kind, paperback. Feeling the dry paper underneath my fingers, bending the edge of the page as a bookmark; nothing beats that feeling. Well, beer does but you get where I’m going with this. Basically, I live for missing out. I am the girl who will wait until the very last minute to find a way out of hanging out. “I am so sorry I cannot make it out tonight, it’s raining/snowing/hot/cold/breezy” you give me a weather forecast and I will use it. My favorite line “Wait that was tonight? I completely forgot, next time.”

What I do suffer from is F.O.C.O. – Fear of calling out. I suffer from that big time. And yes, I did just make that up. There is something about calling-out of work that doesn’t sit well with me. The only call out I do are pre-planned months in advance vacation notifications. And even then I am working. Recently, I went to Orlando for a surprise birthday getaway. For the three week-days that I was there I had morning conferences. I wanted to check-in with my teams, answer emails, and make sure everything functioned just as smoothly if not better than if I were present.

Maybe it is the Caribbean in me. Growing up I wasn’t allowed a sick day. My mother was a firm believer of “if you’re really sick the school will send you back home.” The school rarely did send anyone back home and on one occasion when they did call, she stated I was already there. She pointed out the two hours left in the school day, and added if it’s really that serious call the ambulance. Now what many don’t know is I hate hospitals. I’d rather die than go to the hospital and if I ever ask to go to one it means death is rearing its head. Therefore, I never got the chance to stay home for being sick. My mother wouldn’t let me and my disgust for hospitals wouldn’t either.

I think that twisted concept of your mind governs your body, you can will your body to school, and wait until the weekend to die was carried into my adulthood. Mark my words, I will probably die on a weekend, I’ll be too busy to go on a weekday. More than likely a Sunday after 2 p.m. I teach Sunday school and I cannot miss that. Just you watch.

I have never called out of work. Typically I arrive ½ hour early and leave ½ hour late. And by arriving and leaving I mean physically being in the building, but I’m always working. No matter how sick I may feel, I will my mind to govern my body and get it done (I hear this works in the clean eating area as well, but I have yet to try it – I doubt I will either). My fear of F.O.C.O. is so real that as I write this I should be on bed rest but I am at the office taking a much needed ten minute break.

On Monday I went to work knowing I wasn’t in the best of shape. I felt lower back pain but made excuses “been working out too much, must have pulled a muscle.” Rather than not going to work I skipped out on the gym. Seemed fair. How sick could I have really been when I was a rock star at work? Turns out when I’m sick I work better. I am so focused on silencing my body’s cry that I go above and beyond my already over-achieving-standards. Around Midnight Tuesday morning, it all came crashing down. Every single muscle in my body hurt. Castro oil did not help! When your luil mascreti doesn’t work you know it’s serious. I decided to go to the hospital, that didn’t last long. I waivered my right to treatment. What I did do however was go to work. I didn’t last long there either. Two hours in I had to have a come to Jesus moment and get my life together. Long story short turns out I was suffering from severe dehydration cause by food poisoning which also led to slight delirium. Fun stuff.

My entire theory of dying on a weekend almost went out the window there for a second. And remember I did say I only go to the hospital when death is rearing its head. Now you think I would’ve learned my lesson right? Nope, not at all. I am asked to be on bed rest for the rest of the week, but here I am writing this column sitting at the office multitasking. I know I won’t die on a weekday, so it’s whatever.

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