FMS is a real thing. You suffer from it. Your children suffer from it. Your doggie suffers from it. FMS, or “Fear of Missing Something,” or FMS as Mike likes to call it, is a real thing. It afflicts millions. And it afflicts me when it comes to sandwiches.
Truth be told I had never heard of FMS until yesterday when the road-tripping gods shined upon me once again, as Mike introduced me to two more of his friends and I was welcomed into their beautiful home; Nathaniel and his wife Brett got a good thing going on there in Charlottesville, VA. I was privy to it for a pleasant Tuesday evening. Lounging in their spacious living room, the conversation turned briefly toward FMS, a term which Mike has been using for years evidently. FMS seems to cause people to stay out much later than they would like, or attend events that they don’t really care to, or, I’m guessing, leads to Lindsay Lohan-sized drug habits--all driven by the fear that they will miss out on something earth shattering. But my FMS kicks in like a crazy person when I’m standing in front of a chalkboard painted with 30+ varieties of deli sandwich.
You might have heard of Little Johns. You might not. It’s not Papa Johns. Or Jimmy Johns. Little Johns is this serious little sandwich shop in the heart of UVA’s campus in Charlottesville, VA. I’ve been there before, years ago when I was starring as Beefy Sailor #2 in UVA’s summer stock production of South Pacific (and I don’t mean beefy as in oonka choonka, I drink roids and look kinda good beefy--I mean beefy as in I had never heard of the term “freshman 15” and had no intention of learning it). I would frequent Little Johns for the late night, post show, post keggar, post theme party, post matinee meat fix. Their sandwich menu was extensive. And overwhelming. It remains so to this day. So overwhelming in fact, that it becomes an exercise in sadomasochism.
On this Tuesday night, years later, after enjoying the company of newly weds in a newly wed household with a newly wed dog (the dog wasn’t married, just saying), I find myself standing in front of Little John’s terrifying menu once again. I must strategize. I’m guessing there are over 30 variations of deli sandwich to choose from. I feel the FMS build up in my chest and creep down to my stomach. It feels a lot like stage fright. Strategy numero uno: speed-read. I glance over the menu, skimming over the names and sandwich contents, thinking that if I don’t think about it that I might make the best decision, bypassing my racing mind for my the needs of my gut. But that loses out when my brain realizes that I’m skimming over the menu and not giving each individual artful sandwich its due; it’s kinda like when the eye of Sauron doesn’t notice that a hobbit and his fat friend are blindsiding him. So the eye of Sandwich caught me.
Now I begin to labor. “Knockwurst, onion, tomato, herb mayo, bacon, American cheese, angel semen,” or “Steak, cheese, cheese, cheese, cheese, mayo,” or “Pastrami, Salami, Gorlami, and Guido.” I break my gaze for a second and take a necessary breath. I remember that my eye paused momentarily at “The Onion Wheel” when I first skimmed the menu recklessly. My eye slowed there, so that must mean something right? Anyone who’s read Blink by Malcolm Gladwell knows that there is scientific evidence behind the instinctual, often first thought, decision. So, with shaky confidence, I walk up to the meat man and say, “Onion Wheel please.” He makes it, but not enthusiastically. He either doesn’t enjoy his job—which I cannot understand, because he gets to feed eons of drunk college kids EVERY NIGHT—or he knows I went down the wrong road. But I pay for it and dive in.
It seems tasty as hell. But there’s no joy, not even in the first bite, because there are at least another 29 sandwiches up there that might be better. FMS takes the lead. What if I ne’er return to Charlottesville? What if this is the end all be all of Little Johns for me? Am I content to go out with The Onion Wheel? Thoughts turn to my deathbed. It seems very possible as I swallow the last bite of oniony sandwich that when I face my god and say to him, “I chose the Onion Wheel,” he will say, “Wrong.” So FMS has now shifted towards full-blown FOD; you know it, Fear O’ Death. Could have gone with “The Ranger,” a triple-decker with bacon, pastrami, cheese, knockwurst, you name it. Now I need to take counter-measures and psychoanalyze myself. (Btw, Mike is staring at me from across the table like I’m a crazy person. Can’t say he’s wrong. But I’ve seen the look before. Got more important things to deal with. FMS is waging a war on my mind.)
So where was I? Ah, the psychoanalysis…so was I actually dissatisfied with The Onion Wheel? Did it not pleasure my buds of taste? A few moments ago I thought it was tasty as hell. I documented it as such a few sentences ago. I know that any other balanced soul, especially a drunk collegiate one, would say it was a damn good sandwich! I mean, how can you go wrong with a little turkey, pastrami, onion, tomato, deli mustard, herb mayo, muenster cheese, on a toasted Kaiser roll? The answer is FMS. There were 29 other sandwiches that were probably better, if not 5x as good. I try to cope by killing off the corn chips that came with it, as well as half of Mike’s. But I’ve had corn chips before. And they’ve never given me FMS, or, as the horrifying realization comes, Fear of Missing Sandwich! It’s like I’m in a political thriller where some A-lister puts together the conspiracy that Jon Voight is inevitably behind. They knew all along; Mike, Brett, and Nathanial all knew that FMS is actually Fear of Missing Sandwich. I’m doomed.
Listen God, or Abe Lincoln if you’re up there, I chose the Onion Wheel and I intend to face the consequences. I want to make peace with my decision. I thought it wouldn’t be too heavy, and the crunch of the onion sounded appealing.
MY SON, THE ONION WHEEL WAS A COP-OUT. IT WAS A SINGLE WHEN THE MENU WAS FILLED WITH TRIPLES AND EVEN A FEW 4-BAGGERS. YOU CHOSE WRONG, AND NOW YOU SHALL BLOAT. YOU SHALL BLOAT THROUGH THE NIGHT, TOSS AND TURN, AND PAY THE PRICE ON THE TOILET IN THE MORNING FOR YOUR DECISION. AND, YOU GET THE ADDED BONUS OF A MENTAL PRISON. THE WORLD WAS YOUR FOOD-GASM. NOW IT IS YOUR FOOD PRISON. I AM A VENGEFUL GOD, AND I SHALL MAKE SURE THAT YOU NE’ER RETURN TO LITTLE JOHNS AGAIN TO RIGHT YOUR WRONG. AND IF YOU DO EVER RETURN BY SOME MIRACLE, YOU SHALL FIND THAT THE ENTIRE MENU WILL BE OF THE ONION WHEEL AND THE ONION WHEEL ONLY. THIS I DEEM UNTO YOU. GO VEGAN.
And thusly god spoketh to me about my eating habits. I miss Abe.
-- JEFF
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