The cultural practice of Giving a Fuck has been ingrained in society long before Freud identified the mother-of-no-fucks-given id, the I’m-just-about-keeping-my-shit-together ego and the I’ll-dedicate-my-life-to-the-greater-good superego. These fucks are not straightforward, either. On a daily basis we give: the gainful employment fuck, the familial ties fuck, the “be the change you want to see” fuck.
In my attempt to become a grown-ass woman, I have succumbed to a charitable nature in the fucks-given department, and it’s exhausting. What keeps me going is the hope that one day, when Mercury finally leaves retrograde and the Olsen twins wear matching outfits, I will wake up refreshed and gloriously out of fucks to give.
I fantasize it will go something like this:
Wake up. Hit snooze six times.
Stuff my face with crunchy sugar-coated cereal designed for children. Cast a steely gaze at my steel cut oats with no guilt whatsoever.
Run my hands along my stubbly legs and decide to wear the skirt anyway.
Endure the concerned coos of “Are you sick?” and “You’re looking a bit pale” from my co-workers. Tell them I’ve gone makeup-free; relish in their flustered attempts at back-pedaling.
Go teach my first grade class (if there’s anything we should give a fuck about, it’s education).
Make tea in the staff room. Get approached by co-worker Ryan-with-the-wife-and-infant. Get shown latest photos of infant. Have the topic of my own fertility and desire to bring new life into the world probed. Reassure Ryan-with-no-womb that I’m not having unprotected sex. Further elaborate that I enjoy the ability to travel and sleep whenever I want. Thank him for his concern about my reproductive health and sex life. Walk away with Kathleen Hanna ringing in my ears.
Fish a tampon out my bag and walk proudly across the staff room because I’m bleeding and I don’t care who knows it.
Leave the family chat group after one too many inspirational quotes.
Give no excuses for leaving the family chat group.
Leave work on time. Skip the gym.
Remove bra. Do not think about what’s for dinner or whether there’s milk in the fridge.
Restart Season One of The Vampire Diaries with zero shame.
Skip the art show with the tiny overpriced slow-cooked burritos and order a pizza.
Open the fancy bottle of red I was saving for a special occasion.
Call out a relative on their bigoted Facebook post.
Get blocked by bigoted relative.
Get distressed message from friend about douchey boyfriend. Tell her what I really think about douchey boyfriend.
Go to sleep feeling lighter without all my extra fucks weighing me down.