The best part of aging is that the older you get, the fewer fucks you have to give.
I’ve heard that saying in countless forms and formats. I’ve been told that my age and my quantity of givable fucks are inversely related – my ability to give a fuck shrinking as the years go on – until I completely run out of said fucks to give.
(And, according to the people who love that adage, that’s when I’ll find true freedom.)
Don’t get me wrong: I love when no fucks are given. I love when some true bullshit is laid out before me and I can proudly proclaim, “And on this day, I just couldn’t give a fuck.” Giving a fuck about every little thing is exhausting, spirit-draining, and unnecessary.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve run out of fucks to give.
The thing is, I have plenty of fucks to give. My cup of fucks runneth over. I care deeply and passionately and sometimes all-consumingly. The things I give a fuck about can quickly and easily become the epicenter of my world.
There are times when I can shock myself with how many fucks I actually give.
That hasn’t changed as I’ve gotten older. The intensity of my feelings hasn’t cooled – the quantity of fucks have yet to decrease. But I’m quicker to see what is actually important versus what is not worth my energy. I’m quicker to recognize what is a true issue and what is true bullshit. With each bit of additional life experience, I am better able to discern between what carries weight and what is a waste of my time.
So it’s not that, the older I get, the fewer fucks I have to give. I have just become more intelligent about how I give them out.
Laugh lines? No fucks given there. The latest styles? I canceled my shipment of fucks for that one. What I am or am not supposed to do at my age? Yup, looks like there’s an embargo on fucks for that territory. Worrying about whether or not my hair is perfect and my makeup is just right? Oooh you guessed it. I’m like Seinfield’s Soup Nazi, only in this situation it’s no fucks for you.
I have not run out of fucks to give. I haven’t even lessened my quota o’ fucks. I simply find that I have them better under lock and key, not letting them slip out to everything that crosses my path. I’m better able to detect when something is about to steal my fucks and I’m quicker to step in and say, “Sorry, but I just won’t give a fuck about that.”
And the beautiful thing is, now that I have better power to direct those fucks, the things I do give a fuck about are more intently and intensely devoted to. I’m not spreading myself thin, giving a fuck about every little thing. I’m saving those fucks up for later, for when I want to dive into deep waters and care greatly.
I don’t have to budget my fucks. I can go to town when it’s time to actually give a fuck about something. I can pull out the AmEx Black Card of fuck-giving and clear out the store.
If you ask me, this is where the true freedom lies. Not in not giving a fuck, but being able to suitably give a fuck — and give greatly a fuck when appropriate.
Recognize what is worth giving a fuck about. And then give generously with those fucks – with the knowledge that you haven’t squandered them on something meaningless.
Know that, when you don’t give a fuck, it’s not because you’ve run out of them, but because you deliberately decided to keep them for yourself.
Because, fuck: I don’t ever want to be in a place where I’ve run out of fucks to give. That would be fucking terrible.