Some people feel a sense of freedom when they do something exciting, like go skydiving, cut off all of their hair, or quit a job. The other day, I accidentally left my cell phone at home for about four hours, and I’ve never felt more liberated in my life.
I’m not the only one who’s trapped in screen life, but it’s not always noticeable until you step away for a little while. According to a 2015 article by Sally Andrews entitled “Beyond Self-Report: Tools to Compare Estimated and Real-World Smartphone Use,” adults spend as many as five hours on a mobile device each day, checking texts and other apps more than 80 times per day.
Definitely guilty.
When I first realized I had left my phone at home, I was already in the car and on the road. There was a moment of panic, but I’m not entirely sure why. I was meeting a friend for lunch, and then I was running an errand. I was with my brother, who had his phone in case of an emergency. Why did I need my phone? To check Instagram in the gaps between driving and parking? To keep tabs on Twitter while I waited for my friend at the restaurant? To refresh my email while waiting for the car to warm up?
Despite giving up some of my social media apps for Lent, there were still plenty of addictions left on my phone.
I will admit that I am totally a victim of “fear of missing out,” or FOMO, a term that scientists use to describe the nagging concern that something interesting is happening and you’re not aware of it, usually because people are posting about it online. Why does it matter if someone I know is enjoying his or her day when I have another friend right in front of me?
So what did it feel like to leave my iPhone charging in my outlet at home and be out on the town? If I counted the amount of times I reached for my non-existent phone, it might have been an entertaining number. The impulse to check my notifications was just as strong without my phone being nearby. With nothing left to do but be, I soaked in the elements around me. I sat at the tiny Mexican restaurant and read the menu posted on the wall, noticing everything Los Burritos had to offer. I overheard a few interesting conversations. I people-watched. I took in the red-checkered tablecloth and blue ceramic plates. My brother and I had a conversation about musical theory.
This small span of time without my phone did not cure me, but it was an oasis of screen-free time in a social media desert. I think FOMO should actually be the fear of missing out on real life activities (the birds chirping, the people sitting next to you, the color of a March sunset), rather than the fear of missing a compilation of pixels on a screen.
