To coin a warmongering phrase (why not? Everyone is playing dirty), I’ve gone over the top. I’ve got the internal equivalent of inappropriate nervous giggles. After these past few years of travel – from The Overwhelm to The Brink and back again – I’ve gone floppy. I don’t care how tired I am or how mad I feel. I can’t be bothered to dwell on the anxiety or the threat. I feel done. And it’s unexpectedly cheerful. I guess this is what zero fucks feels like.
Perhaps the world is – very broadly… criminally broadly – divided into two factions: The first will use all the fuckery to fan the flames of outrage and their indignation; they will march and rant and care, care, care and I admire them and envy them a little. Not a lot. The second group – my lot – have found themselves pushed beyond care and commitment. Yes, of course we’ll vote. Yes, of course we are banning plastic and wondering whether flying is strictly necessary. Yes, we love people. But no, we are fretting. No, no, no. Enough. We may be sad. We may be careworn and regretful. We may be lonely and frustrated. But that frantic, panting torment? Nah.
There comes a point doesn’t there where worrying too much becomes a kind of madness. Where you’re just lying there, all heart-poundy at 3 in the morning, caring and caring and caring and helping absolutely no one including yourself. Grown-up women possess a unique kind of practicality. A time- and feeling-saving ‘what is the point of this?’ questioning. And so, while I read and engage and wonder, I simply cannot bring myself to fervently invest. The cost is too high. Perhaps this is environmental – too many elections and too much Brexit insanity and too much Trump abomination. Or perhaps, in my prime, I am mastering that most delicate of arts. The art of not giving a fuck. Or, at least, of keeping some in a savings account to be accessed only when absolutely necessary…
