How Many F@cks Should A Middle Aged Woman Give?

Apathy as a Shield or a Sword

While having cocktails with a friend, she lamented that at midlife she was all out of f@cks. To quote my forty-five-year-old stunningly eloquent companion, she said, “Gaze upon my field of f@cks, and notice there are none.”

I nodded along in agreement. When I hit forty, I had come to a similar resolution.

Along with my thickening waistline, apathy towards the concerns of others became a blanket insulating me from the chronic mental fatigue of feeling like I wasn’t good enough. My life experience thus far showed me that I’d be more fulfilled and less anxious if I stopped caring about meeting others’ expectations or fitting into the round holes lurking on social media of what’s in and what’s not.

At midlife, my knees might creak when I walk and I might need a flashlight to help me see a menu, but I follow my own path.

While others buy their Stanley cups, I’ve held fast to my Yeti purchased fourteen years ago. When my daughter asked me to sign her up for Girl Scouts, I said no. Taking her to gymnastics and ballet already consumed two days of my week, I was not relinquishing a third. Thirty-year-old me would never have turned her down. Thirty-year-old me would want her to have every door and opportunity open for her.

But forty-three-year-old me shut her down without hesitation. I simply said no. Yes, she could grow up resentful and end up on her therapist’s couch one day lamenting about how her mother ruined her life by depriving her the chance of being a Girl Scout, but I don’t care.

When it came time to buy my son Christmas presents, my cousin suggested I buy him Beats headphones like all the other kids. They are over $300.00. For someone without a job who misplaces things on the daily, that seemed excessive. I bought him generic ones off of Amazon for $30.00, and God willing so far, he’s survived.

Will he be picked on at school? That remains to be seen. But I’m trying to use my indifference to the opinions of others to show my kids it’s okay to be their own person. As a writer, people will not always like what I say, and I’ve had to learn to accept this as well.

The fact that my field of f@cks is barren allows me to inhale without choking on judgmental textured fumes.

It’s liberating. But not giving a f@ck is a misnomer. Not giving a f@ck about small things does not mean not caring about the big things. While I can ignore others snickering because I posted a selfie on social media without my children (GASP at the idea that I think I matter too), I can’t lock my bedroom door and watch Netflix all day and ignore the political landscape unfolding around me. I live in Florida after all.

My field of f@cks runneth over when it comes to ensuring I have a voice in issues that matter and affect me.

Although my apathy is a shield, it is also a sword allowing me to advocate for what I believe in without caring what other people think. As a middle-aged woman, I no longer walk on eggshells when broaching certain topics. I stomp. I educate. With each passing year, my voice has become louder and clearer.

Rage Against the Machine isn’t just a 1990’s rock band. It’s the way of the middle-aged woman.

On social media someone recently wrote that musical artist Pink “got old.” Pink responded that “growing older is actually” her “first ‘grateful’ every day. To be this strong, to be able [t]o still piss off complete strangers just by existing. F@ck yeah times 44!” Her words resonated with me. Middle aged women are still judged by their looks. Getting older is deemed a sign of weakness.

But aging allows us to cultivate a sense of self-confidence where we care less about the trolls of the world. They want us to think we don’t matter because we are aging, and that we should be hidden away like delicate ornaments that come out once a year on Christmas. Maybe if we are lucky, they’ll remember to feed us day old Fruit Cake.

But we can’t afford to be silent. We can’t afford to leave our fate in the hands of others.

Pink at mid-life is an artist and social activist, paving her own path. She recently gave out banned books at her concerts in Florida, to offer a jab at those trying to ban books in our state and around the country. It’s not relevant what she looks like — what matters is the message she’s sending.

My grandmother was a staunch women’s rights advocate. As a single mother in the sixties, she marched with the National Organization of Women (“NOW”) to help legalize abortion. She bought her clothes second hand, and when we told her she sported a hat from a Gentlemen’s Club, she replied she didn’t care because it cost a dollar. I drove her to vote in the 2012 election at the age of eighty-five.

She never capitulated to the idea that her voice should matter less as she aged. She was very proud of me and my sister when we participated in the 2017 Women’s March. I know she would likewise be happy that I’ve assisted in compiling signatures to get the constitutional right to abortion on the Florida ballot. We are witnessing the first time in our nation’s history that civil rights are being rolled back instead of pushed forward.

I can’t let my grandmother’s legacy be erased.

I also advocate with the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation (“JDRF”) to spread awareness for type 1 diabetes, an autoimmune condition where the pancreas makes no insulin. My eleven-year-old son was diagnosed at age four, and his brother and my niece have the genetic markers to develop it as well.

Type 1 diabetics are insulin dependent for life. It is a cumbersome and costly condition to manage. As part of the JDRF’s Government Day, I went to Washington, D.C. to meet with members of Congress to discuss type 1 diabetes research and funding initiatives.

My son was also selected to be part of the Children’s Congress, and went to Washington, D.C. this summer to advocate himself. This will be the rest of his life, and watching him take control of his future made my heart melt.

I don’t want my children to fixate on making other people happy, but I want them to forge a path of equality and opportunity for themselves and others.

While my garden is empty for many issues, it will always be full for issues that matter. No matter how old I am. No matter how I look. No matter if every piece of me breaks. Like my grandmother before me, my voice will never fade.

I might not give a f@ck ninety-nine percent of the time, but when I do, it will be heard around the world.

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