The Art of I Don't Care

Yesterday I was sitting in the dentist chair, mouth splayed open like a crime scene, with that spit-slurping wand sucking up all my dignity as the overzealous hygienist told me I needed to floss better. And as she showed me exactly how to jam that unholy wax string up and around my hemorrhaging gums, I nodded at her as if to say, “Why yes, absolutely, I’ll do that, of course!”

But between you and me, that is never going to happen, and you wanna know why?

Because…

I.

DON’T.

FLOSS.

I don’t floss. I never have. And there is no way I am going to start now.

“Shame on you!” you’re probably thinking. “Monster! Sociopath! Let’s flog her with a wet noodle or, better yet, burn her at the stake!”

All are normal reactions to anyone who knowingly veers from life’s norms.

But the thing I wish to impress upon you, my readers, is that frankly, I do not care.  And it feels so good to say that out loud.

Caring less is an epiphany that has been coming to me slowly over the last year or two as the daily Have-To’s outweigh the Want-To’s in my life full of To-Do’s. Inevitably things have to fall off the list. Like what 4 out of 5 dentists recommend, having the latest iPhone or making sure my iOS is up to date. Whatever.  Nor can I fret if bushy eyebrows are back in style or my legs look better in high heels. (They do but I just do not care.)

And I know I’m supposed to make my bed every day, wipe germs off the doorknobs when my kids are sick, and place the fork to the left of the dinner plate.

Call me a hell-raiser, a rebel, but I do none of the above. I don’t even fold the laundry any more. Each kid gets a basket heaped high with their clothes, which they crumble into balls and (gasp!) shove in their drawers.

Yes, we are living dangerously over here at the Sassa house.

A couple days ago, I spied a pile of crumbs on my freshly cleaned kitchen floor and just kept on walking. I’m pretty sure those crumbs are still there.

Call it slacking. Call it lowering your standards. I call it survival. Taking care of my family’s basic needs all the time is exhausting enough, without having to worry what the outside world expects. If happiness is a decision, then indifference is a gift. And there's no time like now to start opening it.

When we were kids, our cares were few and we couldn’t be bothered to sweat the small stuff, (unless we had to, to get our allowance). But then life with its rules and demands got in the way, sucking up our time, our creativity, our joy. Once we are done doing our daily Have-To’s, there’s only so much energy left, so why not put it towards what you love without caring what anyone else thinks?

For me, this is the best part of getting older. Getting back to our carefree, child-like minds.

I look at the grandmas who stop wearing bras and dance in orthopedic shoes and think one day that's going to be me. Those little old ladies just don't give a damn. 

I think they've got the right idea.

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