So January is here and with it half assed attempts at going dry and eating no bread and pretending there isn't half a tub of celebrations in your top drawer. The obligatory reports of 'big freezes' blow in and as we all tearfully watch Obama leave office we try and comfort ourselves with the knowledge that anyone, indeed any bloody clown, can become president - even one who hates women unless they are peeing on Russian hotel beds.
But I have a weapon in all the drudgery, to see me through the dreary weather and dealing with the expense of my Husband turning 40 (at bloody last) - it is a book, called 'The Life Changing Magic of not giving a F**k.' It is miraculous. My husband could have written it because he really doesn't give a f**k at all. He swears with abandon, leaves social gatherings the minute he feels he has talked/listened enough and keeps his distance from most people. At the heart of all this I suspect is just consummate laziness, but I admire his ability to let all things just slip off his shoulders. Of course he gets grumpy about work, will be ENRAGED about Australia losing at any sporting event and will be anxious if the children or I are ill - but in general he doesn't give two hoots what others think or expect of him. While I will stew over a conversation, or worry about a potentially misunderstood text, he just says 'f**k it.' Long have I sought to emulate his behaviour...
But I do give a f**k. About ridiculous shit - like: will the bosses like my script? Will I ever get another writing job? Can I even write? Do I look fat? Have I got lines finally appearing? What will happen when that baffoon is president and why did A Monster Calls not get any award noms when it is BEAUTIFUL? Is that mole on my neck cancerous? Am I now middle-aged? Will my house ever sell? Is everyone in my town looking at it online and judging my curtains? (Judging by the amount of people who ask me endlessly about my house sale this is a yes). Am I spending enough time with my children? Should I try and exercise today? What legacy am I leaving? Should I make more plans to see friends? It is winter I don't actually want to see anyone or leave my house but is that bad? What will I get my Mum for her 70th? Should I get a bikini wax? Why do I never get a ripe avocado? ETC. ETC.
Husband frequently says 'being in your head must be exhausting.' It is. That is why I blog. To spit it all out. So the book. It helps by telling you that you do NOT have an infinite amount of f**ks to give. So you have to choose VERY carefully what to give them to. Your mind is a barn apparently and you need to clear it all out of the mindless clutter and be very choosy about what you think about. That instead of wading into dangerous waters listening to other people wang on about stuff that they EXPECT you to give a f**k about - instead say 'everyone has an opinion' and run off. Quickly. It also teaches how you can not give a f**k and amazingly, thrillingly, at the same time, not be an asshole. This is new territory for me. Husband - he has this licked because for all his blunt Aussie tactlessness he still is not an asshole. Well, only sometimes. I'm at the part of writing out a f**k budget - and sorting my f**ks into categories, so I can work out where to spend/give them. Exciting isn't it?
Also, I can write up all the stuff I don't actually give a f**k about: your dreams. Ever. So don't tell me them. This includes my kids who frequently share their night time tales. Cars - they go from A to B, never seen the point of being excited by them. Or indeed Jeremy Clarkson. That I haven't watched more than one season of Game of Thrones - or Breaking Bad. I will eventually but not yet. Fashion - I don't have the life that accompanies such great heels anymore - much as I would like to - and care whether or not ridiculous frayed denim trousers are 'in' or kitten/wedge/stiletto heels are very on point or whatever cool phrase it is - I no longer have the energy to do anything other than run around Zara and buy yet another pair of biker boots and a stripy top. Baking for school fairs. Sorry that is why Waitrose has baked buns, pre-made icing and chocolate buttons. Looking younger - I'm not. Facebook politics and liking updates - better to just come off it and free the mind. Taylor Swift - she is no Madonna is she? That I probably drink too much. I am a parent. It comes with the territory. That I can't cook. I married someone who can cook - winning! Instagram - I don't care about curated lives that took 7 filters and 2 hours to perfect. I actually miss the old days of waiting in the queue at Boots for your holiday pics only to discover the flash never worked in half of them. Christmas - overrated, high on effort low on return. Valentine's day - I mean really, who actually appreciates this day apart from teenagers and even then it is torture when the deliveries in school show up the fact you got one card from the kid with the sniffle and head lice while your best mate got 10?
Go on - try it. Buy the book and start your lists. Before you know it, it will be February and you will be too busy not celebrating Valentine's day to care. You can thank me later. But only if you give a f**k.
But I have a weapon in all the drudgery, to see me through the dreary weather and dealing with the expense of my Husband turning 40 (at bloody last) - it is a book, called 'The Life Changing Magic of not giving a F**k.' It is miraculous. My husband could have written it because he really doesn't give a f**k at all. He swears with abandon, leaves social gatherings the minute he feels he has talked/listened enough and keeps his distance from most people. At the heart of all this I suspect is just consummate laziness, but I admire his ability to let all things just slip off his shoulders. Of course he gets grumpy about work, will be ENRAGED about Australia losing at any sporting event and will be anxious if the children or I are ill - but in general he doesn't give two hoots what others think or expect of him. While I will stew over a conversation, or worry about a potentially misunderstood text, he just says 'f**k it.' Long have I sought to emulate his behaviour...
But I do give a f**k. About ridiculous shit - like: will the bosses like my script? Will I ever get another writing job? Can I even write? Do I look fat? Have I got lines finally appearing? What will happen when that baffoon is president and why did A Monster Calls not get any award noms when it is BEAUTIFUL? Is that mole on my neck cancerous? Am I now middle-aged? Will my house ever sell? Is everyone in my town looking at it online and judging my curtains? (Judging by the amount of people who ask me endlessly about my house sale this is a yes). Am I spending enough time with my children? Should I try and exercise today? What legacy am I leaving? Should I make more plans to see friends? It is winter I don't actually want to see anyone or leave my house but is that bad? What will I get my Mum for her 70th? Should I get a bikini wax? Why do I never get a ripe avocado? ETC. ETC.
Husband frequently says 'being in your head must be exhausting.' It is. That is why I blog. To spit it all out. So the book. It helps by telling you that you do NOT have an infinite amount of f**ks to give. So you have to choose VERY carefully what to give them to. Your mind is a barn apparently and you need to clear it all out of the mindless clutter and be very choosy about what you think about. That instead of wading into dangerous waters listening to other people wang on about stuff that they EXPECT you to give a f**k about - instead say 'everyone has an opinion' and run off. Quickly. It also teaches how you can not give a f**k and amazingly, thrillingly, at the same time, not be an asshole. This is new territory for me. Husband - he has this licked because for all his blunt Aussie tactlessness he still is not an asshole. Well, only sometimes. I'm at the part of writing out a f**k budget - and sorting my f**ks into categories, so I can work out where to spend/give them. Exciting isn't it?
Also, I can write up all the stuff I don't actually give a f**k about: your dreams. Ever. So don't tell me them. This includes my kids who frequently share their night time tales. Cars - they go from A to B, never seen the point of being excited by them. Or indeed Jeremy Clarkson. That I haven't watched more than one season of Game of Thrones - or Breaking Bad. I will eventually but not yet. Fashion - I don't have the life that accompanies such great heels anymore - much as I would like to - and care whether or not ridiculous frayed denim trousers are 'in' or kitten/wedge/stiletto heels are very on point or whatever cool phrase it is - I no longer have the energy to do anything other than run around Zara and buy yet another pair of biker boots and a stripy top. Baking for school fairs. Sorry that is why Waitrose has baked buns, pre-made icing and chocolate buttons. Looking younger - I'm not. Facebook politics and liking updates - better to just come off it and free the mind. Taylor Swift - she is no Madonna is she? That I probably drink too much. I am a parent. It comes with the territory. That I can't cook. I married someone who can cook - winning! Instagram - I don't care about curated lives that took 7 filters and 2 hours to perfect. I actually miss the old days of waiting in the queue at Boots for your holiday pics only to discover the flash never worked in half of them. Christmas - overrated, high on effort low on return. Valentine's day - I mean really, who actually appreciates this day apart from teenagers and even then it is torture when the deliveries in school show up the fact you got one card from the kid with the sniffle and head lice while your best mate got 10?
Go on - try it. Buy the book and start your lists. Before you know it, it will be February and you will be too busy not celebrating Valentine's day to care. You can thank me later. But only if you give a f**k.
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