Things I’m supposed to care about, but don’t…
Cars: I drive a ten-year-old Volvo because it was given to me when my father-in-law passed away. You could give me a beat up tank for all I care. But the Volvo gives off a false impression. To rectify this, I leave the bird poop on the hood and the smashed up skittles embedded into the leather seats.
Purses: Give me a recycled shopping bag. I don’t know the brands and I could care less. Is Gucci really going to matter during the apocalypse?
Shoes: Well, kind-of. I like boots. I can’t walk in heels, so they’re out of the question. Actually, I find a lot of women can’t, but they don’t know this about themselves. I do. I look like Carol Burnette in Annie. But we’ll see who’s in better shape at 80. Those shoe whores will be filing down their bunions with a humpback, while my erect spine is bending over my FitFlops into a perfect downward dog.
School involvement: Don’t get me wrong… We need parents involved regarding education, but sometimes those functions are like a gathering of the bored and deranged housewives. I can’t wear my horrified face forever. It hurts.
Small talk: Some days I can partake. Other days I can’t. I’m kind-of moody like that. This can be dangerous at a party where it’s required. To change the subject from the niceties, point to the hostess’ breasts and say, “You know they’re not real, right?” Maybe it’s true. Maybe it isn’t. But it gets you off the horrid track of asking about the mental health of every one of their children, cousins, aunts and uncles.
Workout clothes: I see people at yoga in all the expensive brands just so they can sweat in them. The only thing I care about is that I don’t have camel-toe. Other than that, give me a ripped Iron Maiden t-shirt and something with a drawstring.
My nails: With the exception of my toenails, my fingers are not worth the polish, let alone the file. They need to function as ripper, scratcher, can opener, nose picker, scissors and claws.
Long lines: My feeling is, if it’s out of my control, then I can’t waste my energy getting all worked up. I’m a beaten down frequent flyer. I’m used to it. So, Lady-in-front-of-me, stop turning around huffing and puffing and mumbling to me, “Can you believe this? This is outrageous!” Cuz I’ll be the one helping the airline attendant take you down if needed. Those people take a lot of abuse.
Babies on planes: I’ve birthed three children. I no longer hear dogs bark or babies cry. Stick in some earbuds and watch reruns of Mad Men, Dude.
Play dates (this really only applies to my surprise child. Er, I mean youngest): A mother who uses this word alone — deal breaker. Likewise, if she has a mini-van with a bumper sticker of her children — deal breaker. If she’s still in the stroller, diaper bag or baby stage – deal breaker. I’ve already earned my stripes, Sister. I got out that dark tunnel barely alive and no one’s dragging me back. No one! Keep walking…
There’s probably more. But I don’t care enough to continue this list.
(If the sun is out tomorrow, I’ll have a better post.)