Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both
At my middle school, the highlight of the sixth grade was a weeklong trip to Yosemite. Though I had been to Yosemite several times with my family, I had been looking forward to this particular trip for months. As a sixth grader, escaping your parents and piano practice for an entire week was nothing short of a dream come true. The trip was slated for October and I was absolutely thrilled -- until about mid-September. That's when I learned that none other than J K Rowling herself would be doing a book signing in my hometown during the exact week I was to be away. The fact that I was going to get to spend a week in Yosemite with my friends was suddenly meaningless. My brother, of course would be attending the book signing. At that juncture, the unfairness of the world was all too apparent to me.When I got home from Yosemite, my tales of Half Dome and the highest measured water fall in Northern America were trumped by my brother's signed copies of Harry Potter books and a video recording of his interview on the ABC evening news. The segment had aired the night of Rowling's visit; the fanatic youth drawn to the event was a newsworthy testament to the fact that sexy had been brought to books.
As a high school junior creating the list of colleges and universities to which I would eventually apply, I had established a set of criteria (which I now realize were rather useless). Somewhere at the top of that list was Strong study abroad program. Yes, I hadn't yet applied to a single school, and I was already considering the semester I would spend somewhere else. Such are the inner workings of the adolescent mind.
For those of you who had the pleasure(?) of attending Penn with me, you know that I didn't end up studying abroad, at least not for real. Once I had been sucked into Penn life, set my heart on enough courses that even eight semesters wouldn't have sufficed, made friends who couldn't have been convinced to come with, and sold my soul to a dance team, I simply couldn't fathom leaving for four months. I feared missing out on whatever would occur back in the city of Brotherly Love when I was abroad. After the Yosemite-Rowling incident, I wasn't about to take any chances.
This phenomenon has permeated the virtual world as well. Google's exclusive beta invites have revolutionized the way we react to new technologies. It's almost humorous to think that we live in a world where people will beg for invitations to an email service. That is the fear of missing out.
This week, my family from near and far is reuniting in Bangalore to celebrate my Grandpa's 80th birthday. As much as it pains me to admit, I was initially on the fence about leaving behind a hurricane of activity back home for this whirlwind trip.
I took just enough Economics courses in college to master the idea of opportunity costs. The value of anything is measured by the value of the next best alternative foregone.
From being greeted by silent hugs that spoke volumes to learning about the earlier days of photography to discussing the SALT talks between the United States and Soviet Russia to the look on my grandpa's face as he received his birthday present (an iPad, surprised?), I quickly realized that my next best alternative is a long shot in the opposite direction.
I have consciously chosen to eat meat once in my life. I was three and it was Thanksgiving. All my friends were eating turkey and I didn't need a college degree to determine that I was the one missing out. My parents allowed me to take one bite. I guess they knew something I didn't (what's new?). I hated the taste, and after that fateful night, I never asked to eat turkey again. Or meat in general. My three-year-old self would tell all of us that in all honesty, most of the times we think we're missing out, we're actually not.
To wholly believe this fact, however, is easier said than done, of course. When you're not invited to an event, it's easy to say you wouldn't have attended anyway. But the gnawing feeling of missing out is difficult to kick. When you do have some control over the situation, the trick is to remind yourself why that next best alternative really is the next best. Not better. It's cognitive dissonance at its best: We hate being wrong. We hate to make the wrong decisions. So we, without fail, change either our thoughts or actions so that our beliefs are in line with our behaviors.
I think it's best I stop here. That is, before you start to question everything you've missed while sitting in front of some device reading this.
For those of you who had the pleasure(?) of attending Penn with me, you know that I didn't end up studying abroad, at least not for real. Once I had been sucked into Penn life, set my heart on enough courses that even eight semesters wouldn't have sufficed, made friends who couldn't have been convinced to come with, and sold my soul to a dance team, I simply couldn't fathom leaving for four months. I feared missing out on whatever would occur back in the city of Brotherly Love when I was abroad. After the Yosemite-Rowling incident, I wasn't about to take any chances.
This phenomenon has permeated the virtual world as well. Google's exclusive beta invites have revolutionized the way we react to new technologies. It's almost humorous to think that we live in a world where people will beg for invitations to an email service. That is the fear of missing out.
This week, my family from near and far is reuniting in Bangalore to celebrate my Grandpa's 80th birthday. As much as it pains me to admit, I was initially on the fence about leaving behind a hurricane of activity back home for this whirlwind trip.
I took just enough Economics courses in college to master the idea of opportunity costs. The value of anything is measured by the value of the next best alternative foregone.
From being greeted by silent hugs that spoke volumes to learning about the earlier days of photography to discussing the SALT talks between the United States and Soviet Russia to the look on my grandpa's face as he received his birthday present (an iPad, surprised?), I quickly realized that my next best alternative is a long shot in the opposite direction.
I have consciously chosen to eat meat once in my life. I was three and it was Thanksgiving. All my friends were eating turkey and I didn't need a college degree to determine that I was the one missing out. My parents allowed me to take one bite. I guess they knew something I didn't (what's new?). I hated the taste, and after that fateful night, I never asked to eat turkey again. Or meat in general. My three-year-old self would tell all of us that in all honesty, most of the times we think we're missing out, we're actually not.
To wholly believe this fact, however, is easier said than done, of course. When you're not invited to an event, it's easy to say you wouldn't have attended anyway. But the gnawing feeling of missing out is difficult to kick. When you do have some control over the situation, the trick is to remind yourself why that next best alternative really is the next best. Not better. It's cognitive dissonance at its best: We hate being wrong. We hate to make the wrong decisions. So we, without fail, change either our thoughts or actions so that our beliefs are in line with our behaviors.
I think it's best I stop here. That is, before you start to question everything you've missed while sitting in front of some device reading this.
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