For years, I was really caught up in what people thought of me. The incessant need to be liked was exhausting. My malleable personality swung like a big long dong between people’s approval and opinions. Amped-up teenage insecurities, who never left home for college, were joyriding on my boatload of fucks to give.
Too many fucks were allocated to those alpha voices, who shone a light on my glaring deficiencies, and brainwashed me with highfalutin beauty standards. I managed to mean-girl myself into my own worst enemy. Faking it socially only took makeup, malnourishment, and a good blow-out.
Motherhood came with its own set of fucks to give. Donning Wonder Woman bracelets, you deflect judgement from all angles, your friends, your family, your MIL. My magnetic personality attracted drama llamas who ignored my flimsy boundaries. I invested too many fucks as a pro bono therapist, tumbling down their redundant rabbit holes.
The years from my dad’s death until my husband’s passing were pretty damn hormonal. Gasoline in the form of menopause fueled depression, despondence, and detachment. I didn’t give one flying fuck, but I still donated them to unworthy causes. One of the greatest life lessons I’ve learned is if it’s not my circus, it’s not my monkeys.
The last five years have been a big transformation in acceptance, love, and self-talk. The beauty of aging is my insecurities no longer give a fuck. This gal is cocksure and bulletproof! A staggering 91% of all worries don’t come true, so why give more fucks than necessary.
From the get-go, woman are programmed with too many fucks to give. While getting older may lighten the load, it’s not until you reach a certain age that zero fucks are given. If I’d known I would eventually run out of fucks, would my distribution strategy have changed? Frankly my dear, I don’t give a fuck!
JOIN THE SISTERHOOD, Subscribe today! 🍷
