According to approximately everyone, turning 40 is the shit. And by ‘everyone,’ I mean everyone over 40. This is the decade where my remaining fucks will slide off me like so much water off a duck’s back. No longer will I worry about what other people think, fret over trivial things I can’t control, or obsess over my looks.
Snarky comment from a mom at the school’s Parent Night? Zero fucks given.
Cut off by a 20 something on her way to SoulCycle? Nope. No fucks.
Arm severed by a rogue grizzly bear mistaking it for honey-flavored taffy? Nulla daretur fucks. (That’s ‘zero fucks given’ in Latin).
But the thing with my fucks is they’re putting up a pretty good fight on their way out the door. They plopped down on the couch of my subconscious with a bag of laundry from their place, flipped on the TV, and asked if they could crash here a while “just until [they] get their head straight.”
They took a page from my four-year-old’s book and started clinging to my leg the second I headed towards the door.
They joined forces to form a demonic dragon for me to slay in one final test of my strength and stamina.
They dove head first into a mountain of coke and came out, guns a blazing, like Al Pacino in Scarface.
They came up with absurd explanations for their behavior, saying that phone call to Ukraine was “beautiful” and “totally appropriate,” demanding to know where the quid pro quo appeared in that transcript. Wait, maybe that was someone else.
So am I the carefree 40 something everyone promised, (they PROMISED!), I would be? Not yet, but it’s only been like a week and a half. I’ll give it another month before I start suing.
