I'm Wearing No F*cks to Give

A lost chapter surfaces!

I found this chapter in my files and don’t know why it’s not in I’m Wearing Tunics Now. It’s a mystery! Anyway, here’s part of it. Also, I’m asterisking the f-word in this just for f*n.

I suppose you can’t write a book about being a middle-aged woman without addressing all of the f*cks in the room. Or rather, the lack of f*cks, because the “I no longer give a f*ck” phenomenon is considered to be the biggest triumph of getting older. For example, I just now thought, “I don’t give a fu*ck that all of the f-bombs in this paragraph will lead to a parade of bad reviews on Amazon from grown adults that can’t handle a little swearing.”

Okay, fine, I kind of do give a f*ck about that. Don’t one-star review me, you sensitive ear virgins!

Spoiler: I got a lot of one-star reviews from sensitive ear virgins

Some people wrongly think the IDGAF years start earlier than they actually do. We’ve all seen a 30-year-old woman grandly announce to everyone, “I don’t really care what people think of me anymore! It’s so freeing!” Well, Ashleigh, the fact that you detailed that new philosophy of yours in a 500-word Facebook post complete with Disney Princess GIFs, a special IDGAF TikTok dance, an Instastory, a podcast and a few emoji-filled tweets about your new insouciant outlook means you probably do care a little bit. As we say in Texas, bless your heart, you sweet, sweet dummy.

It’s not until you hit the 40-year mark that the hemorrhage of f*cks really begins. At that age your f*ck store suddenly has a massive liquidation sale and your brain becomes a 24/7 local TV ad starring a used car salesman named Crazy Larry screaming, “These f*cks have got to GO GO GO! I’M NOT CRAZY, YOU’RE CRAZY! THERE WILL BE NO F*CKS LEFT IN THIS LOCATION BY SATURDAY, I GUARAN-F*CK-IN-TEE IT!”

Once you don’t give enough of a f*ck to announce you no longer give a f*ck? That’s the day you really start living, man.

I’m starting to realize why this chapter didn’t make the book.

By your fourth decade, you’re A) too tired B) too busy or C) too evolved to care about trifling things like looking perfect all the time. Who cares if you wear white after Labor Day, or part your hair on the wrong side, or show up to federal jury selection wearing prescription sunglasses because you forgot your regular glasses and then you have to sit in the courtroom for eight hours looking like Grubby Anna Wintour? Well, okay, I cared about that last one a little bit when it happened this past summer because the judge thought I either had glaucoma or was riding a nice prescription pill high, but then the prosecution and the defense both agreed to not select me for a two-week trial and kicked my weird self out, so who’s the legal genius now?

Yep, it’s no longer a mystery.

I was feeling so confident when I hit midlife that I even began to give unsolicited advice to younger women. Why yes, it was as obnoxious as it sounds. Like when I told a twenty-something salesperson at Macy’s to stop saying “Sorry” so much. She said it at least three times after walking past me while I was rummaging through the INC sales rack hoping to find something that wouldn’t make me look like And Then There’s Maude. It was ridiculous.

“You don’t have to apologize for just existing, you know,” I said to her in a calm, wise voice that I knew she’d later describe to her brunch pals as melodious. “Women are allowed to take up space.”

“You’re right. Thank you, ma’am,” she politely answered. Then a few minutes later she intentionally left the security tag on my Eileen Fisher lightweight organic linen angled cardigan so the store’s alarm would go off when I tried to leave. To her credit, she didn’t apologize.

Neither did the Macy’s security guy after he looked into my bag and said, “It’s okay. I know nobody would steal this.”

The Drafts folder exists for a reason. I realize that now.

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In other news:

I’m teaching an online humor class for the Writers League of Texas on 5/27. Still a few spots open!

Thanks for reading!

—Wendi