SOFOMO

As in "Solar Eclipse FOMO" and SOOOOOO much FOMO!!!

What certain well-dressed people will not be wearing today. Actually, they may not be that well-dressed. Sigh.

I especially hate it when the store clerks shake their heads before I even get the question out. They all seem to smile as they do it too - some with pity, some with amusement, some without showing teeth; a smug “I told you so” expression in their eyes. I know the looks well. I’ve gotten three of them so far today. Three “don’t even waste your words” head shakes - - and with each new one, I feel a twinge of something that’s all too familiar. The sudden panic that comes with not having planned for something, and the realization that the rest of the world did.

I first had the feeling Saturday, when I popped into a Warby Parker, after having read something online.

“I hear you’re handing out those glasses for free,” I say to the first sales guy I see.

He smiles and shakes his head.

“We ran out,” he says, then looks at my disappointed face with the kind pity the world reserves for those who just don’t get it.

He does, though, have a piece of paper I can use. “See? You just poke a pinhole here, and then hold this other paper behind it,” he says.

“So I look up at the sun through the pinhole?” I say.

“Well, I think you put your back to the sun and then look at the shadow through the pinhole,” he says tentatively. We’re both confused and we both feel sorry for me.

“So, like, everyone will be looking up and I’ll be standing with my back to the sun?” I say. “I feel like that’ll make me feel like an even bigger loser than I already do.”

I wait for him to correct me, the way people always do when you say you’re a loser, but he just keeps smiling kindly.

I’m undaunted. I have a drink with my son and his boyfriend and don’t even think to worry about the Solar Eclipse, because it’s so far away. Two whole days from now. So, no need to plan for another day and a half, at least.

Spontaneity is one of the things I’ve always liked about myself. I’m good at drumming up a cocktail party on a Friday afternoon, for example. Or at least, I used to be. But then, all the people I always invited either moved or had babies, or fell in love with people who lived in England, or started skiing every weekend and I could no longer send 4PM texts saying, “Who wants to come for drinks tonight?” and hear the joyful dings on my phone that were followed by “Yay’s!!” or “I have dinner plans, can I bring a friend?” I always said yes.

Spontaneous Me was happy.

No-Plans-For-Eclipse-Me has to admit that spontaneity doesn’t always work.

Today, I set out with my daughter Ava to do two things - kick Solar Eclipse’s ass (me) and buy blush at Sephora (Ava.)

We get to the Saie counter, where the desired blush sits in a pretty row. But not in the shade Ava wants. We stare at the shelf, as if we can divine the right one to appear. We ask for help, hoping to see the salesperson’s head pop up triumphantly after a poke-around in the drawer. The poke-around takes a concerning amount of time. And when the salesperson’s head pops up, there’s no triumphant look. Only a head shake. All out.

As we wait, we notice that almost everyone who enters the store has one thing in common - tulips - sweetly drooping from sacks on their shoulders, or bouquets, wrapped in brown paper, which they hold, like pageant queens.

When I ask one of the queens what’s going on, she tells me what everyone but us seems to know - “Today is Tulip Day at Union Square! They’re giving them out for free. And you get to pick them from a field!” she says.

Tulip Day! How lovely! Who needs blush?

We leave Sephora to grab ourselves a fistful of spring. But first, a quick stop. “Target has everything,” I tell Ava with the confidence of someone who knows nothing. “No way they won’t have the glasses! And you know a store like that will have tons of them.” I go on and on like this until we’re inside, staring at endless aisle of endless stuff.

Three minutes later, we’re treated to one syllable. “Nope.”

I haven’t even gotten the whole question out. All I’ve said is, “Do you have those gla….”

The sales guy waves his hand to save me from having to finish, and himself, from having to hear it.

Alright. Two no’s. But two no’s don’t make us wrong! And the third time is always a charm.

Union Square is pure delight. Everyone is happy. People walk along, with tulips cradled in the crooks of their arms, or peeking out of canvas bags, or held at their sides, like lazy statues of liberty, who are feeling too Sunday-ish to hold their torches aloft.

The line is long but it’s beautiful out. We stand with our faces to the sun. A woman asks if we have tickets and we say no and she shrugs, saying someone had mentioned tickets. I’m about to say “tickets don’t matter” as if I know, but suddenly, there’s a man with a bullhorn.

“Please don’t stand in the line if you haven’t gotten e-tickets,” he says, his British accent sounding equal parts polite and annoyed. Ava scrolls through her phone to see if we can get them as we wait.

“They’re out of stock,” she says. I stare at her phone indignantly.

Tulips? Out of stock? The two things don’t seem congruous, and yet, here we are. A head-shake, a Nope and an Out of Stock.

As we walk west on 14th Street, we approach Melissa’s. My eyes light up with yet another fun idea.

“We just want one little cupcake each,” I say to the salesperson, as if she’ll find my whim as adorable as I do.

“Oh,” she says, and I can feel a head-shake coming. “The smallest count we sell is a six-pack.”

I feel like I need to drink a six pack as we walk out, rejected yet again.

“Ooh!” I say, noticing the Cohen’s Optical across the street. “Maybe them?” We shrug in the “what do we have to lose” way that is starting to feel all too familiar. And can’t help but laugh when we get to the door. The “THANK YOU!” may as well have my name scribbled beneath it. “Thank you, Debra, but please. You’ve got to be kidding.” I wonder if the exclamation point is meant as friendliness or emphasis and with a sigh, decide it’s the latter.

When we got home, I look at the internet information I’d studied the day before. Ah, right! The Long Island ticket booth at Moynihan Train Station! How specific! Sure, people have gone to the Warby Parkers and Public Libraries of the world, but something tells me the Long Island Railroad ticket booth will be my ticket out of Palookaville.

I head up 8th Avenue and can’t seem to avoid seeing people with bundles of tulips, like annoyingly colorful trophies. Their awards for having planned ahead.

I enter Moynihan, admiring its beauty - a stark contrast to its ugly cousin, Penn, that I can only imagine watches from across the street with the same petty jealousy I feel toward the Tulip People.

There are a few people ahead of me at the Long Island Railroad ticket booth. They’re very tall, and very jolly, which makes me hopeful. And then, annoyed, as they make an inordinate amount of small talk with the ticket person. “What if I had a train to catch?” I think peevishly. I hope they’ll have glasses in hand as they turn from her, but their fingers clutch only train tickets. I look hopefully toward the window, willing there to be a pile of cardboard glasses stacked up neatly. Alas.

I wait my turn anyway.

“Does that mean all out for today? Or all out forever?” I ask, with hopefulness bordering on desperation.

“All out forever,” she says, then shakes her head in the way I’ve inspired so many to do today.

I trudge home, wondering if it makes me a bad person that I’m beginning to hope tomorrow will be cloudy. Of course it does. I think about my friend Susie, who, with her husband Ken has driven a good five hours to be in one of those perfect viewing spots where everyone (well, most everyone) booked hotel rooms months ago. Her excitement is one of the things that makes me want the damned glasses.

“It’s like Woodstock for nerds,” she texts, and I’m equally happy for, and envious of her. Who am I kidding? I’m so jealous, I could scream. She claims it’s all because of her husband and it’s probably true- Susie married a world-class planner. There’s not a concert or important event they miss. I sigh. Ken is a ten.

The other thing I think about is the article in The Times with the headline, “You Don’t Just See a Total Eclipse. You Feel It Completely.” The writer, a solar physicist, explains, in beautiful detail, what happens. As the sky darkens, the temperature drops 10-15 degrees. And the animals go silent. He then describes the thrill - so primal - so spiritual, that I feel like an idiot for not having spent the last five years planning for this day. And then there’s Bill Nye, the Science Guy, who says, “Even if it’s cloudy, get out there. Get under it.”

I’m a ball of stress. The Eclipse may as well be a giant bunch of tulips.

I need to calm down, so I turn onto 17th Street and pop into Pippin, my favorite vintage jewelry store. I half-heartedly poke around, watching a beautiful woman drape a strand of tiny pearls around her neck and hoping she’ll buy them because they look so right on her. I don’t want anything, but am coming back to a kinder version of myself as I make my way toward the door.

And then I see three young women - but they’re not just women - they’re Tulip People. The pinks, reds and yellows dot my peripheral vision and I’m working up a good batch of resentment. But as I get closer, my resentment turns to something I haven’t felt in hours. Joy. Because, well, look:

Their tulips are as droopy as my spirits have been. “Who’s the smarty pants now?” I want to ask, then feel disgusted with myself.

I keep my eyes open as I get back onto the street, because who knows what I might find? I pass a place with a Dollar-Store-vibe and pop in.

“Do you…”

Head shake. Of course.

And here I am. On Eclipse Morning.

Looking ruefully at the sun that blazes into my window. Then at my phone, which reassures me clouds are coming. Which makes the corners of my mouth turn up, and I feel ashamed, as well I should.

I hear the squeals of the adorable kids who live down the hall from us as they go off to school. No doubt that family has glasses. I can’t bring myself to ask, because they’re very good planners.

And the very good planners of the world don’t exactly respect non-planners. Especially on days like today.

Let’s face it. It’s Eclipse Day. And I’m not shining.

Also, if anyone wants to come over for a non-viewing party, just text me.

One more thing - I hear you can make viewing gadgets out of cereal boxes. This method involves a slip of white paper, foil, and putting your back to the sun, like a child, sent to the corner.

I might try it.

Because, suddenly, standing with my back to the sun sounds about right.

Well. This was written quickly yesterday morning, since I had to rush out for a doctor’s appointment. Which I did. And the closer I got to Union Square, the more I felt the party atmosphere in the air. I shook my head and thought about what my friend PK (another non-planner) said to make us both feel better - “I mean, it gets dark every night, and we don’t have to stand in a field to see it.” We both knew this was not the point, but we took what we could get. Her wisdom comforts me as I rush toward the 6 Train.

And then. To my right, there’s a table. And on this gorgeous, lovely, wonderful folding table, there is a stack of brand new Solar Eclipse Glasses!!!

“Are…. are they real?” I sputter to the guy who mans the operation.

“As real as the smile on your face, sweetheart!” he says, and then takes a hit of the blunt he holds.

I tell him how happy he’s making me and he says I should get one for my 25-year-old twin, and we both laugh at this obvious joke, which is only a tiny bit humiliating.

I slap down a twenty and get onto the train with four of the very items I’d lost my mind over the day before. From the doctor’s office, I send pictures to Ava, who checks them out and pronounces them legit.

I walk to her apartment after my check up, passing a Whole Foods with buckets of flowers and am hit with a lovely idea.

“Do you have tulips?” I ask the sales woman.

“We’re out,” she answers.

Some things never change. And I reckon that’s as it should be.

Ava meets me on the street. We test the glasses out and have to keep ourselves from jumping up and down, because they work.

A few hours later, we stand on the hill of a little park. And gasp. At the sliver that keeps getting smaller. And the darkness that begins to surround us. I cry a little and say “wow” a lot. Because we’re part of something monumental.

Something earth-changing.

Something way bigger than us.

Something we didn’t plan for.