We all know about FOMO. The fear of missing out is something that effects us all, whether we'll admit it or not. There's a party going on that we aren't invited to? Hell. Too ill to go into work. Great because WHAT IF TODAY'S THE DAY GEORGE CLOONY COMES IN?! The guy who you fancy is throwing a party while your away on holiday? So what it's 28 degree heat where you are, £50 says that's the night he would have made his move and you missed it. FOMO. It get's us every time.

More recently people have started talking about JOMO. The joy of missing out apparently. They claim that they take great pleasure in being curled up on the sofa with a cuppa and a movie on and would chose that every time over some grim sticky nightclub spending money that they don't have and ruining the next day for themselves. I get that, I really do. But I don't buy it. 

Because sometimes you can't be arsed with a night out, a dinner, a commitment, and that's fair enough. Sometimes there is nothing better than the sofa and something quite satisfying about declining plans and taking a little me-time, of course there is. But there is, for me at least, something that niggles at me when I have to miss out on a party, either due to circumstance or my own decision. There's something about seeing my friend's Snapchat stories that makes me insanely jealous, there's something about hearing people on the streets having fun that stresses me out and there is even some sick envy that I derive from their hangovers as they inhale bacon butties and look like shit. 

But I realised recently that what I have isn't just FOMO. Although in the run up to an event this affects me massively, it doesn't end with fear. The fear of missing out, that's just the beginning of it. What I suffer with, I have decided, is HAMO. The horror at missing out. And yes, I did just make that up. Because whilst all my friends are out having fun? I don't fear that I'm missing out. No, when my friends are out having fun I know with absolutely certainty that I'm missing out. And that's the bit that kills me.

Is that a bit sad? Probably. It's certainly not cool, but that's where I am at with it. At the moment a whole load of mine and Alex's friends, including our flatmate and neighbours, are all on holiday. Sure in the run up to their departure I was a afraid of missing out, but after I realised that I DEFINITELY would be missing out, it became more than a fear, it became a miserable fate, a horrendous one, hence HAMO.

In the olden days, back when I was at prep school for example, there was only FOMO. When I went home (18 miles away from school) I worried constantly that all of my friends who lived close to one another would get together and have fun. As I sat with my brother and sister trying to persuade one of them to come and do a track on the karaoke machine with me, I would worry that 20 miles away, everyone who I wanted to be with, was out having fun without me. That was a a real fear for me. But that was all it was. A fear. Because there was no way of knowing that all of this fun stuff was really going on, I couldn't text them, or check their Instagram feeds or Facebook pages because we didn't have them. Back then, not everything we did was documented on social media for the world to see, and get jealous about. 

Now though? I'm a big old ball of jealousy, we all are and it goes way beyond FOMO.

But I have learnt something recently that I feel I ought to share with any HAMO sufferers out there who don't know what to do with themselves when they cuddle their phones in one hand and the television remote in the other. A couple of weeks ago my boyfriend took me away for our anniversary which fell on the same day as a good friend's birthday party. I shouldn't have cared that I was missing a knees up with my mates; I was on a romantic weekend away after all. But I can't help it remember, I'm a millennial, a HAMO sufferer. So we missed the party and had to see them all the next day (Boo was staying with them). I watched them with their hangovers and heard their stories, I was a little jealous, of course I was. But come Monday morning?

Not two days later, the party was forgotten. To them, to me, it was done. They were back at work and our lives were back to normal. Did they remember that I wasn't there? Did every Facebook friend who had seen pictures from the party remember that I wasn't there? Did they fuck. They were getting on with their lives. My FOMO, my HAMO, whatever you want to call it, it was gone.

At the time, missing a party or a dinner or a gathering, seems like hell on earth. I understand that. But that will pass, it always passes. There will always be another party, another dinner, another gathering. Maybe it's time to replace my HAMO with JOMO, who knows? I'm not there yet but what is that they say? Practise makes perfect right? So I'm opting to sit this weekend on the sofa with my boyfriend and my puppy and ignore every single party sound that London has to offer.