We vowed to invest more in the big-ticket items. You know, the things that really matter — homes, health, family. Yada-yada-yada.

But it was the small, oftentimes forgettable stuff that I pined for — like complimentary food tasters in supermarkets on a Thursday night and that hybrid dance-walk you do when you see your pals on the other side of a crowded pub.

Or those five-minute friendships you strike up in bathroom queues and bars. Soul mates ‘4eva’ while you wait to pee before a cubicle door flies open and you never see each other again.

These social interactions disappeared over the past two years and have been slow to return, which makes sense I guess. The desire to dance in a smoking area until your feet hurt feels a little trivial when faced with a global pandemic.

But there’s a lot to be said for levity. Sometimes it can be easy to forget that going out and having fun is culture. It’s important and it needs to be nurtured and invested in. Especially right now.

On a personal level, I’ve also really missed putting on my non-slob clothes and heading into town. I’ve missed singing, eating food I cannot for the life of me make at home, live music, creaky theatre seats, complete strangers and small talk.

In fact, especially small talk. This year, The New York Times dubbed chit-chat the “ultimate social equaliser”, a safe space where people quietly agree to avoid seriousness and shoot the breeze about how unseasonably clement the weather is, and the hardy disposition of Wally the Walrus.

So after a year of being told to stay put and sit still, and only meet up with ‘lifers’ (friends and family members who are in it for the long haul), I am done. I have had enough of being stuck inside and pretending to enjoy decidedly unfun things. Namely, DIY and sourdough starter.

Which may explain why I now have an almost pathological compulsion to say yes to almost every (socially responsible) social outing going.

Parties, play dates, weddings, karaoke, your boyfriend’s parents’ anniversary luncheon, the launch of a new line of hats for dogs, the opportunity to invest in a Ponzi scheme. No ask is too big or too small.

I am that person in your WhatsApp group canvassing for meet-ups, who responds with non-stop exclamation marks and party hat smiley-face emojis when a date is set. Everything about being out excites me.

Even the annoying stuff like missing the last bus home is still a buzz.

And look, I understand why people feel social anxiety and are wary of crowds. It can be so scary and intimidating. So go at your own pace, and don’t rush it.

But after years of being told ‘no’, it’s electrifying (to quote Danny Zuko) to say ‘yes’ to stuff again.

‘These days, cancelling plans is my heroin’

Bill Linnane

It would be wrong to suggest that I enjoyed lockdown. Nobody did — it was terrifying and monotonous. But not having to go anywhere or do anything social? That I could live with.

I am at the wrong end of my 40s and while I have enjoyed many wild nights on the tiles, I feel I’ve moved on to another phase in life, one where, as John Mulvaney once put it, cancelling plans is my heroin.

Lockdown did deprive me of that endorphin rush, as there were no plans to cancel — no invites, evites, bashes, shindigs, soirees; no weddings, funerals, hooleys, supper dances; no nights away, no gigs, no concerts, nothing. It was grand.

But the best thing of all was the eradication of Christmas party season 2020. No pre-Christmas drinks down the local where you play Russian Roulette with old classmates — who will you end up in an awkward conversation with?

Will it be the guy whose name you don’t remember who seems to think you were best mates or will you be that guy to someone else?

Or will the jackass who bullied you try to buy you a pint because that would make up for the PTSD? To hell with all that.

Then there is the work-drinks bash. I like my co-workers. I’ve had some great friends in work, but that’s where they stay — in work. I don’t see them outside of work, at all.

When I was young, I would go to work dos and make mince meat of the free bar, stuff my face with sausage rolls, make sure I didn’t win anything in the raffle, and then get the 9pm bus home.

Now, I’d rather just stay home and leave it all to the footloose and fancy-free younglings. If there is a theme running through the events I avoid, it is alcohol.

I enjoy a drink, but at home. I always thought there was something a bit undignified about people in their 40s being hammered — are we not meant to have found the confidence to enjoy socialising without the need for a lash of pints?

If evolution was pulling its weight, we should, as our bodies just aren’t up to it. I remember being in my 20s and seeing people the age I am now out and about in my hometown, stumbling around the place and spilling pints, and thinking, damn, those old sods should just go home before they break a hip.

I don’t begrudge anyone a night out, nor do I want some sort of curfew for my fellow seniors that would see us being booted out of pubs at the same time as under 16s, so that the Club 18-30 set can go at it — and each other — in peace.

But there is a time for mayhem and, in my case, it is long past. So now I just decline any and all invites. It’s fine, you seem like an oddball for a bit, but then people just stop asking and leave you to your strange, isolated ways.

Of course, there is a rub — my wife is dying to get back out there, pop both her collar and the cork on some Prosecco, raise glasses, shake asses, all those things I have now consigned to the dust bin of history.

I do caution her that the virus doesn’t really care how badly she needs to get glammed up and hit the dancefloor, but for her, nights out are an essential part of being alive.

Perhaps she is the one pursuing the full richness of our one wild and precious life, but at least she has me there to pick her up, sitting in my car looking at them all falling out of the pub in clumps of glitter and ironic Christmas jumpers, not one bit jealous.

Or maybe just a little bit. We’ll see.

‘I used to get FOMO. Now I have the opposite’

Tanya Sweeney

Before All This happened, I used to be an absolute divil for FOMO. I would experience a spike in anxiety when I saw online pictures of friends clinking cocktails, or front row at the theatre, or taking selfies at a gig.

I hated that someone I knew, somewhere, was having a better time than me on a given evening. If I wasn’t out, I wanted to be out. I wanted to suck the marrow clean right out of the city and take in absolutely all it had to offer. I’ll do nights in when I’m dead, I always reasoned.

Well, we all know what happened to FOMO in the last 20 months. It went the way of Brangelina and Juicy Couture tracksuits. And with it, my appetite for big nights out and group adventures finally waned.

Embracing JOMO (the Joy of Missing Out) wasn’t the plot twist I was expecting in my 40s, but there I was enjoying cosy evenings in, steadily getting through books and box sets, cooking, one-on-one visits with friends that didn’t end with a drunken bop in the Workman’s.

I came to adore my new Friday nights: half a bottle of good red wine in front of BBC4 reruns of old Top Of The Pops episodes. Companionable silence on the sofa. Early nights! They are just delicious.

I never thought that getting a nice takeaway would constitute a high point of the week, but here we are. I once thought that was all deathly boring. But now, it feels soporific, calming, comfortable.

More recently, the invites from pals have started up again. A brunch here, a cinema visit there. For months, we were desperate to see each other in real life.

We told each other that one day, we’d be back in the warm glow of a restaurant or pub together. And now, we can be.

Perhaps the social muscles have simply gone slack from lack of use, but hanging out with groups of people now leaves me utterly exhausted and disorientated, even if they are dear friends.

I need a few days to recover from the sheer effort of lots of chatter. The vaccine passports, the taxi, the masks, the crowds – going out is a faff now and, all respect to my lovely pals, not particularly worth the effort.

Also, what’s happened with the price of everything? When you’ve spent so long buying a decent bottle of wine for less than €20, getting two glasses of muck for the same price takes some getting used to.

Last Friday, I went out for dinner and the cheapest main course was €22. I know restaurants need to cover ground after a catastrophic time, but it’s hard not to do the sums and realise that’s a lot of money for a risotto.

It is so strange to keenly crave and miss something for 20 months, only to find that you’ve gone right off it. I suspect the pandemic has exhausted and depleted me in ways I won’t understand until much further down the line.

But right now, I’m happy to simply stay at home, immersed in warm, cosy JOMO.

‘Life is too short not to say yes to an invite’

Katie Byrne

In the deepest, darkest days of lockdown, I kept my spirits raised by watching videos of DJ sets on YouTube.

I wasn’t particularly interested in the technical wizardry of the people behind the decks — I wanted to see the people in the crowd.

I wanted to see bodies pushed together, arms in the air and spontaneous stank face. I wanted to see sweat dripping from the ceiling and tops thrown off.

I’m not a young woman, but I was so seduced by the ‘Roaring Twenties’ vision of post-pandemic life. For a brief moment, it felt like we were on the cusp of a new age of decadence.

For an even briefer moment, I considered selling all my stuff and travelling the world like some sort of dropout, dance-floor anthropologist.

That’s not how things unfolded, but I’ve been out, and out-out, since the world reopened. I was determined to get to AVA festival in Belfast in September.

It was the first post-lockdown festival in Ireland and the significance of that title wasn’t lost on the crowd, who had travelled from all over the country to be there.

Everyone asked me afterwards if it was different, if people had become odd or timid or less engaging. But the truth is that nothing had changed. The only difference was the palpable feeling of catharsis.

Over the course of the day, so many strangers turned to me and, apropos of nothing, said: “It’s great to be back.” It was life-affirming and totally joyous.

AVA festival was all outdoors and brilliantly organised, but I’ve been to plenty of indoor events too. As always, I take precautions, even when I’m aware that I’m taking my chances.

I have friends who’ve clearly stated they’ll never be on a dance floor again, but at this stage of the game, having made peace with the idea of ‘living with Covid’, I’d much rather balance risk and reward.

It’s much the same with weddings. I’ve been to a couple over the last few months and there seems to be a tacit understanding among the guests that Covid is the great unmentionable.

Again, everyone knows they’re taking a risk but, equally, they’re determined to derive maximum reward from their day out.

I’ve always thought of socialising as a muscle and as a lone-wolf personality, I have to be careful to keep that muscle in shape.

During lockdown, I saw how easy it was for me to disappear into my laptop and my music instruments and, occasionally, how hard it was to find the motivation to leave the house.

So my attitude now that the world has reopened is ‘Yes!’. A weekend in Galway? Yes. A festival in Morocco? Yes. New Year’s in New York? Yes, yes, yes.
It’s an awful cliche, but life really is too short.