Zero Fucks

I care way too much about what others think. It’s not a new phenomenon, I’ve been hardwired this way since as long as I can remember. I worry, fret, overanalyze, fear, fumble, and ultimately talk myself out of doing pretty much everything that requires exposing my inadequacies, whether real or self-perceived. What a fucking pussy.

Life has dealt me quite the load of BULLSHIT as of late. It’s almost comical how many things keep happening to me that are in no way, shape, or form, good things. They fucking suck. I have read The Secret. I meditate. I wake up every morning and think very Oprah-esquely about things I am grateful for. Then someway or somehow, a tsunami of horse shit comes my way on the daily. I am going to have a bunch of t-shirts made that read “Are You Fucking KIDDING me?” in various colors, like those days of the week panties they sell for little girls. Because every God damn day I find myself saying this phrase. Repeatedly.

I have become the biggest walking cliché, through no fault of my own. I am officially a Starter Wife. Man is married to wife who raises kids incredibly well for 18 years. Man decides “Ehh, this really isn’t my bag anymore.” Man walks out on family. Man moves into a pimp-ass Chicago apartment 35 miles away from his kids for more than double his mortgage. Man finds woman 18 years his junior to travel the world with. Why is it that if you have a penis it’s perfectly acceptable to have a “mid-life crisis”? Just because many guys are the breadwinners it’s somehow become a sad norm. Is there a little timer in your balls that goes off to remind you your time is up being a family man? Ding! Ding! Ding! It’s been (insert number between 18 and 25) years! Time to abandon scene and seek out an absurdly younger woman with a base-level IQ and perkier tits. Oh she loves you alright, but not for the bulge in your pants you think it’s for.

Imagine if women suddenly had the urge to say, “Screw this mom shit. Deuces! I’m out!” and after decades of marriage and child rearing, emptied out their joint savings account, booked a one-way ticket to Vegas, and shacked up with Trevor, fresh off the Magic Mike tour. It would most definitely not be considered a mid-life crisis. We’d be labeled as bat-shit crazy whores who have lost their damn minds. No rationalizing it, no excuse because the mom job is a damn hard one with no pay, little benefits, and belligerent bosses (ungrateful offsrping). I don’t know a single mother who would ever do this. Why? Because we are selfless. We are giving. We are the punching bags for all the ups and downs of the family because everyone knows we will still be there and love them. And the men that walk out because, “Boo hoo! I’m not happy anymore!” are the really pussies in this scenario.

There are some crazy things that have happened to me, details I’ve discovered, ordeals I don’t know how I’ve survived. Sometimes when I tell people about it their response is, “You can’t even make shit like this up!!” Nope. Welcome to my life. I know I am building character, getting stronger, growing from this, preparing myself to rise like a damn phoenix from the ashes, blah blah blah. (Cue Gloria Gaynor song.) This shit has hurt me, scarred me, made me question who I am, made me insecure. But in my little epiphany moment while I was squatting at the gym hit me yesterday, I thought, “Wait a minute. I have had no choice in facing all this shit but I survived it. I hated it but I’m here. So why am I such a freaking PUSSY about things that aren’t so hard??”

I’m not “there” yet. I’m far from brave most days. I cry, I swear, I slam a lot of doors. But I feel like a gorilla pounding it’s chest like, “Bitch, BRING IT! Is that ALL you’ve got?!” to life. Fucking A. I’ve been called names, walked out on, accused of being selfish, had my gas shut off, been sued for non-payments, had a car taken away, had personal property stolen, and I might lose my house. If I think of all of it at once it’s a LOT. Holy shit.

So I’m a Starter Wife. Big fucking deal. There’s a lot of God damn WARRIOR WOMEN I know in this club. We are better, smarter, classier, more beautiful, more respected, and tougher than any man and his “mid-life crisis”. Perky tits and 20-something bodies are temporary, honey. Let me lighten that bulge by taking half of what you’re chasing in his pants, thank you very much. I know spelling is hard for you but it’s called M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E.

Moral of the story, you’ve got to give zero fucks to survive. I may get struck by lightning, Hurricane Harvey may turns its course and somehow travel to Plainfield, Illinois, or maybe even a real-live sharknado may knock me down, but I’ll still be here, standing up every single time, rocking my “Are You Fucking KIDDING Me?” shirt. I’ll be waiting on the porch, looking out for the repo man. Watch your purse if you stop by, he’s got sticky fingers