FOMO? No! FOBL.

~ Ellie

So you’ve heard of the acronym FOMO, that stands for Fear of Missing Out? Well, I have been plagued almost all my life with a new one: FOBL.

Fear of Being Late!

This fear all too often ratchets up to sky-high levels of anxiety, and then overflows onto my dear long-suffering husband, John.

FOBL has dogged me since I was a little tyke in Grade One. When I was a very sensitive six-year-old, I was traumatized by my teacher. Up until that fateful day, she was a nice lady, but now she must’ve missed out on her cup o’ joe or cuppa tea, or something!

I’ve written about the incident before, which I will quote from here. Yes, I will cite myself; it’s allowed. 😜 This is an excerpt from my first-person account, written from the POV of my 6-year-old self in 1952. My teacher’s name is changed; I won’t embarrass her innocent progeny! Note that the story says I was in “grade two,” but in reality it happened when I was only in Grade One.

“Like my teacher Miss Duncan. She’s my teacher for grade two. I’m young for grade two but they let me in ’cause they said I was smart. Anyway. I was sure Miss Duncan liked me really a lot, she always smiled at me. But yesterday something bad happened. I was late for school. Just a little bit late, five minutes! But Miss Duncan, she always hates when anybody is late. Boom!—she tells me I have to stay after class. At three o’clock everybody goes home except me. Miss Duncan goes out and comes back and hands me a wet, soapy rag and a pail of water. She says I have to wash all the desks!

Right away I feel like crying, but I hold it in. I start rubbing the first desk—mine—with the soapy rag. Nothing happens! All the marks and scribbles are ink, that’s why! Doesn’t dumb old Miss Duncan know that ink doesn’t come out? I keep rubbing, and still nothing comes out! I start to cry, because I’m really, really sad. And I’m mad, too! I’m mad ’cause I can’t say “This isn’t fair, just for being a tiny bit late!” And I can’t say “You’re a dumb old thing, don’t you know ink doesn’t come out!” No, I have to keep all those words in, locked in my head. So my tears leak out, instead.”

– from https://elliepresner.com/2015/07/31/bubbys-carpet/.

The reason for my tardiness, by the way, is that my dad, who always walked me to school, was late himself, getting ready to leave the house. (This was totally uncharacteristic of him; I don’t know what caused it.)

The result of this deeply distressing incident? I will – to this day, decades later – go to great lengths to avoid being late… for anything or anyone or anywhere! I would much rather be too early for a bus or an event, than late, heaven forfend!

My agitation torments John, as he tends to be way more relaxed than I am when it comes to any sort of deadline, like, for example, a bus due at 6 o’clock, and it’s now 5:45. Let’s go! Come on! I drive him as one would a flock of sheep in a meadow, when you want them to hurry up and get inside the barn due to an oncoming tornado!!

🙄

Sigh. Is there a cure for my affliction? Perhaps a “FOBL Anonymous?” group? I will ask Mr. Google as soon as I finish this! In fact, I think I am finished! And I vow to become more… like John?!!

🕤🕓🕝

Add about three years to my age in this pic below, and you get the 1952 version of little me. Val Morin, 1949.

20 thoughts on “FOMO? No! FOBL.”

    1. Heh, well it has my made-up name! You and I, plus our fellow sufferers in the comments here, share the dubious honour of being eligible for the same support group – if we can find one!

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  4. I was always Germanicly (is that even a word) early or on time for everything – until I had children, at which point I became chronically late. Now, in my dotage, I am back to that German precision (at least where time is concerned).

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  6. I absolutely need to be on time as well and having moved to Chile more than 30 years ago I attribute FOBL to something collective and social rather than individual like your school experience. At the beginning the anxiety was extreme. Chileans very rarely arrive on time so I’d be at the meeting point sweating with the thought I had misunderstood the message and was in the wrong building or restaurant or the right one on the wrong day. It became just annoying later on since I’d normally be the first to arrive and have a long wait till everyone appeared (no apologies mostly). Over time I learnt that 15 min late is the norm in some industries and social circles and 45 excessive. Knowing that sometimes helps the anxiety, often doesn’t, I confess.

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    1. That’s fascinating, Mimi, your attribution of this affliction to possible social/cultural tendencies. Your Chilean story is a funny/sad illustration of that. It made me remember something: “Jewish Time.” I’ve long noticed that so many of my fellow Jews habitually arrived late at events. Either they just thought of it as “fashionably” late, or they just wanted to appear “cool” or something, or both. But no matter. Because like you, I still rushed and got there early, and therefore had to wait, while looking uncool all the while. 🙄 And your description of the anxious second-guessing on your part (wrong place? Wrong day?) is SO apt, and reminiscent of my own worries at such times. Re “knowing” not always “helping” – for sure!! Look at me – even knowing the precipitating incident doesn’t help me. I think I need a good therapist. 😃 Thanks for your ‘confession’!

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  7. My mother was a strict disciplinarian and lateness was not tolerated. I had FOBL for most of my life. I was never late to school or work. At some point, I said (to myself), “Enough is enough. I’ll be there when I get there!” Strangely enough, I’m still very rarely late and end up having to wait for others. 😀

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  8. 34 years in Jail=shift work,(alarm clock!)and scheduling(daily routines).

    24 years Brinks=shift work,(alarm clock!) and scheduling(customers/contractual obligations).

    3 years retired=only wear my watch when my wife and I leave the house together.(gift from her).

    My FOBL?

    April 15,2025

    (date our medical insurance expires).

    Dan (YBIL)

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