I know these guys who do car maintenance, brakes, transmissions that sort of thing, but NOT oil changes. That’s what they told me anyway. Very clearly, no oil changes, they’re just not set up to do that, you know? No problem, they fixed my brakes, it was great. Did I mention they were really nice guys? Turns out they are super duper extra nice with a cherry on top, and will do oil changes for you if you’re young and hot and wearing heels and shorts. Apparently sensible Tom’s, being over 30 and of somewhat average attractiveness disqualifies you for this option. Fortunately Jiffy Lube will change your oil no matter how sensible your footwear is, and doesn’t even care a little bit if you wear slightly baggy capris and don’t have your navel pierced. Which is a huge relief for all women of simply acceptable and substandard attractiveness. Jiffy Lube will even offer you coffee if you aren’t wearing makeup or have your hair pulled up because it’s hot, dammit.
If you don’t look like this, Honey Cakes don’t waste my time
It’s not that I mind. Really. I understand. If if were up to me I would only teach young, shirtless men who were muscular, super attractive, with lots of money, because, let’s be honest, who has time for any man over 30? Honestly I can’t imagine how they have the nerve to go out, much less show up for a yoga class. But I teach for a studio that allows any man, and I mean ANY man to practice. We will let men who are over 40, 50, hell even over 60 into our classes and practice yoga. There are men who do not have clearly defined six packs allowed to go shirtless, men who have more than 20% body fat, men without defined biceps and lats, men with skinny legs, men who are overweight…. actually overweight in my yoga classes. Balding men. Out with their bare heads in public. Nobody wants to look at that. Unless you’re Sean Connery you have no business being bald. And I’m expected to be just as friendly and nice to them.
So I get it guys. It’s your little side business and you have standards. You should have standards. You don’t want just any woman to think she is worthy of being treated equally. That stuff sounds great in theory, but in practice if you’re not selective you could end up spending your valuable time and expertise with someone who thinks it’s okay to go out without makeup, without shaving/waxing/bleaching/plucking/lasering/dying every hair on her body. There are women out there that actually expect you to talk to them when they’re not wearing a super uncomfortable pushup bra and lacy thong. Don’t fall for it. A woman who won’t contort, torture and mold herself into narrow societal norms for female attractiveness is not a woman you should be associating with. Period.
Me, I have to treat men equally, I’m like Jiffy Lube. If it were up to me I would only teach shirtless firefighters. One day. When I have my own studio.
It had snowed and I couldn’t get my foot into my boot because of the fucking leg corset.
That’s how yesterday started. It finished with a $2,025 puncture in each hip and chakra workshop. Just a regular Friday.
You would think if I was going to pay someone over $4,000, pull my pants down, and let them take pictures and a video I would have walked away with something rather exciting and completely unsuitable for this family-friendly blog. I’m not completely ruling out such experiences, but that’s another post.
So. Yesterday was approximately 4years in the making. It started with our hero as a fearless badass yoga teacher, it involved:
Twelve Burly ER dudes
Eleven ER visits
Ten Shots of Fentanyl
Nine Thousand Needles
Eight Hundred X-Rays
Seven Special Lawyers
Six Ortho Surgeons
FIVE Ambulance Rides (with Hip dislocations)
Four Pitiless PTs
Three Sets of Crutches
And One Fucking Leg Corset
I know, now you’ve got a Christmas song stuck in your head. Sorry. Who am I kidding? Totally not, sorry, cuz it’s kinda catchy. You’re welcome.
The story is not over, but our hero through it all remained a Badass yoga teacher and also managed to complete a 500Hour Yoga Teacher Training, a Personal Training Certification, a Life Coaching Certification, a Trauma-Informed Yoga Training, Mother Fucking Firewalked with Tony Robbins, started teaching in Cook County Jail (occasionally on crutches with aforementioned fucking leg corset), got sacked 1.5 times, hired 10+ times, broke up 5x, got back together 4x, and continues to have fabulous adventures and hang with a bodacious bunch of Badasses.
Bones, for the win
I got this
F@cking Leg Corset
There’s more, so much more, so you’ll have to stay tuned if you want to hear about the Mustang Convertible in Arizona, Osteostrong, Several Sets of Wings, Art, Truffle fries and Hamilton.
Stage 1: The Prelude AKA Before Operation – Characterized by:
Insane optimism – I WILL return to full-time work in 1 month, tops! EVERYONE will be in AWE of my stunning recovery – there will be tears of joy, applause, balloons, puppies, because who doesn’t love puppies in a triumphant return day dream? All recoreded in slow motion video. Also, my hair will magically stop impersonating the Lion King and my skin will clear up.
Impressive consumption of bone strengthening supplement power, protein power (that only tastes mostly of chalk thats been scraped off a sidewalk), stupidly expensive (but totally worth it!) miracle powders in green containers from Whole Foods, and actual green things all combined in blender. My muscles and bones will the best muscle and bones the surgical team has EVER seen. They will so impressed they will take pictures and post them to their surgeon friends. I will be famous in the medical community for having the absolute BEST bones anyone has ever seen. There will be autograph requests and TLC will do a special on my amazingly strong bones. I will be remarkably humble and slightly embarrassed about the attention and fame.
Enthusiastic daily strengthening exercises! Squats, planks, leg lifts 24/7.
Rekindling of old flame, not because of lame reasons like I’m worried about pretty major surgery, because I totally GOT this surgery thing, but because this time it’s gonna be so different from all those other rekindles that crashed and burned, well actually flopped, fizzled and limped off whimpering. But THIS time he’ll really SEE how wonderful I am. He will sleep in a chair at my bedside, make me protein shakes and miraculously lose all those somewhat irritating character flaws just for me. We will bond. He too will be awed about my amazing recovery and some point we will ride horses. Into the sunset. On a Motherfucking beach. That’s EXACTLY how this is going to go.
Stage 2: The Deed AKA Operation Day – How Things Actually Happened. According to Me. On Morphine.
Right. So surgery is just a tiny wee itsy bitsy bit more involved than we had planned. Something about complications… bones dissolving, lots of bleeding, extra hard hammering of metal parts that break my femur, but just in about 6 or 7 places, so no biggie. Not a problem, see impressive preparation above. I will still be triumphant. PT, OT, medical and nursing staff will be stunned by my Can-Do attitude and miraculous healing powers. Some will suspect mutant genes or that I am secretly an X-Man. Professor Charles Francis Xavier – the Patrick Steward version – will come visit and ask me to join him. I will tearfully accept. Music will play, hospital staff will applaud (in slow motion, because see above).
I am now short a couple of pints of blood and didn’t quite have the super impressive bones I had imagined. Sadly there will be no
autograph tours with orthopedic surgeons. But I am stuffed with awesome NEW bone grafts from cadaver bones, which is totally awesome because Walking Dead jokes for The. Rest. Of. My. Life. I’m certain my donor will turn out to be a famous salsa dancer so along with my upcoming remarkable recovery I will also develop a sense of rhythm and the ability to move my hips independently of my spine. My students will be in awe of my new salsa based sculpt classes and they will have to move my classes to larger venues to accommodate the huge influx of students.
I am part Borg now. Which is totally badass. Screws, clamps, ties, implants, kinda creepy claw thingy – Got ’em! Resistance is futile.
Topic 1: Not Remotely Zen and the Art of Automotive Maintenance
Be wary of Google maps when they suggest a ‘faster route’ to your swanky restaurant date with your daughters (one cooking for you, one eating with you).
Faster routes in Google maps can mean potholes the size of large bowling balls.
Potholes the size of large bowling balls can mean tire blowouts/flats in questionable parts of Chicago at night.
When changing a post pothole the size of a large bowling ball tire in questionable parts of Chicago at night be sure to turn your car lights off so the battery doesn’t get drained.
When changing a tire at night in a questionable part of Chicago saying ‘Ok Google turn on flashlight’ to your phone works better that ‘Ok Google where the fuck is the flashlight?’ – the second will have Google autocorrect ‘fuck’ to ‘phone your ex who told you to stop swearing so much’ and no good will come from THAT conversation.
When flat tires won’t come off even though you’ve removed all the goddamn lugnuts and pulled as hard as you can, you can try calling AAA, and you can try the police to help – because questionable area – but do not try this on the night the Cubs get into the World’s Series, because all of the police are at Wrigleyville and not in your questionable part of Chicago.
When flat tires won’t come off, even though you’ve done every bloody thing correctly and you’re going to be late to your reservation using ‘Very Loud Creative Swears’ whilst yanking on the motherf’ing tire will, in fact remove the flat tire and send you a few feet back with a filthy tire on your trendy, I’m going to a swanky restaurant outfit and your ass on the equally filthy roadside, but you won’t care, because pulling that motherf’cker off was extremely satisfying.
Once a goddamn flat tire is finally off the car, two motivated women can get a spare tire on in less than two minutes because Bitches Get Stuff Done and there was a swanky restaurant waiting for us.
And just in case handling a flat Like A Boss wasn’t satisfying enough, the Chef comes out to greet us personally and gives us a tour of the kitchens because besides being cool and badasses, we also love eating exceptional food.
Topic 2: Dating or Dr. Really Strangelove and How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb
Never date musicians
No good has ever come from dating a musician, so when screening potential dates ask first if they can play an instrument.
Playing piano might be okay, but plays electric guitar in a band is RIGHT out – do not walk, RUN away.
Never date Scorpios
I’m certain there are some very lovely Scorpio men out there, but do not date them. Scorpio in any part of their chart, just to be safe. Scorpio Moons especially no.
No more Latino men – no, no, no, no, and Hell no. Write this down, because apparently this is a smooth spot in your brain – NO Latino men. Mexican, Peruvian, Ecuadorian, Spanish doesn’t manner, don’t do it. It will never end well.
Catholic Latino men who adore their mother. Just don’t. You can’t even. You will never ever even. You will be switched from Madonna to Whore and back so many times you will get whiplash. You will swear too much, smile too little, never cook as well, be respected too much or way too little. You will never be good enough. This is a fact, at least for you, it is a fact. For the love of your remaining sanity and shattered ego, don’t go there.
Scorpio Latino Musician? Run.
Never date Irishmen, especially if they’re poets. No good ever came from dating an Irish poet. Write that down in your journal till you remember it.
Basically dating is a bad idea. Dating will invariably lead to adding another category to the list of men you are never to date again.
You might think being a yoga teacher with long curly hair would attract suitable men to date, it does not. It does however, attract all manner of suggestions regarding flexibility and comments about anatomy.
Topic 3: Approaching Interesting Men with Beards in restaurants
DO IT. They could turn out to be a really cool band and invite you to come do yoga with them and go to their gigs
Do not date them – see above. Hang with them, do yoga with them, be generally be cool around them.
Topic 4: Retail / Food therapy or Eat, Read, Love
Buy the sweater, it will be warm and soft and gorgeous, feel like a hug and it will never judge you, tell you to smile more or to be more ladylike.
Buy the book(s), they will be interesting, expand your thinking and always there for you and will never ignore you when you need them most.
Buy infinity scarf with e.e. cumming’s poetry i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart) all over it because poetry that some men write is so much better than most men.
Reread Neruda, because poetry… so much better than actual men.
Buy the fingerless gloves with that section from Wuthering Heights that you love because well-written words, so much better than…. men.
Buy dessert, eat it whenever the fuck you want, and love every moment of eating it, because life is short and often needs chocolate. Also chocolate never judges you, ever.
Movies – Go to them. Find a friend, go alone. Put butter on your popcorn, eat it all. Movies where the creeptastic man meets a very satisfying end are especially good.
Also, yoga. Do some yoga, get sweaty, fall on your ass, get up again. Repeat.
Last week I had a small issue with my garbage collection. It was actually more of a collect some of it, dump some of it on the street and leave most of it behind. Oh, and then drive over what was left behind making sure it was impossible to pull my car out without driving over it again. Let me tell you there is nothing I enjoy more than cleaning up garbage that I have already cleaned up right when I need to leave for work.
If only there was a way to actually express how that felt…..
Well! Gee Willikers and Jiminey Cricket!!
Jeepers, somehow that just wasn’t satisfying, and wait, it’s also taking the Lord’s name in vain
gee willikers a humorous or outdated extension of gee, which is a euphemism for Jesus. Gee willikers, that wind’s a-blowin’!
#gee #geez #sheesh #jeepers
I love you Debra
Holy filet of fuck-minion!
Feckin’ flesh-turd dropped stinking from the poxy arsehole of a hare-lipped harlot!
– Christopher Moore
There, that’s a little better.
Once again I was told to stop swearing and to be a Lady by a man who uses fuck like a comma.
So, for all the well-intentioned people who have told me to act more lady-like, this badger-shagging spunk monkey of a fucking blog is just for you.
As The Vagenda’s Holly Baxter explainedin the summer: “Women are routinely told to hold themselves back and pay special concern to their language. It’s a foundation for real misogyny.”
Some people will continue to believe that swear words are unladylike. Others will claim, like (Quentin)Letts (who wrote of Dame Helen Mirren “blurt[ing] out filth like an uneducated trollop.”), that they indicate a lack of education, intellect or imagination. To those, I present some of my favourite words: Cackle. Hoodwink. Loquacious. Pusillanimous. Vernacular. Galumph. Because, if using a singular monosyllabic curse is unimaginative, or unladylike, then maybe we should dress it up a little. Put a metaphorical tiara on that obscenity, if it’s so deeply unfeminine. – Alice Vincent
So why would a well read and well educated modern woman feel the need to use profanity? Perhaps it is because I am well read and educated.
In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best-bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get renown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.
– John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
Choose us. Choose life. Choose mortgage payments; choose washing machines; choose cars; choose sitting oan a couch watching mind-numbing and spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fuckin junk food intae yir mooth. Choose rotting away, pishing and shiteing yersel in a home, a total fuckin embarrassment tae the selfish, fucked-up brats ye’ve produced. Choose life.
– Trainspotting, by Irvine Welsh
And maybe, just maybe there are a few really good reasons for women to swear.
Women have far better things to do than express their frustration in a way that’s pleasing to patriarchal values. Today’s most offensive swear word comes from what’s between our legs – so surely we should best how to use it?
“I personally have a cunt. Sometimes it’s ‘flaps’ or ‘twat’, but most of the time, it’s my cunt. Cunt is a proper, old, historic, strong word. I like that my fire escape also doubles up as the most potent swearword in the English language. Yeah. That’s how powerful it is, guys. If I tell you what I’ve got down there, old ladies and clerics might faint. I like how shocked people are when you say ‘cunt’. It’s like I have a nuclear bomb in my pants, or a tiger, or a gun.
Compared to this the most powerful swear word men have got out of their privates is ‘dick’, which is frankly vanilla… I love that ‘cunt’ stands, on its own, as the supreme unvanquishable word. It has almost mystic resonance. It is a cunt – we all know it’s a cunt – but we can’t call it a cunt. We can’t say the actual word. It’s too powerful…”― Caitlin Moran, How to Be a Woman
Beyond classical literature, feminist empowerment, fighting the fuckwitted patriarchy there are many good reasons to swear.
TOP TEN REASONS TO SWEAR LIKE A LADY
It’s fun and it can be funny. Try saying badger-shagging spunk monkey without at least a smirk.
It makes TV shows and movies more engaging. Who doesn’t love Samuel L. Fucking Jackson? More profanity equals more viewers. Not shitting you – Ask Monika Bednarek senior lecturer in linguistics at the University of Sydney, ‘The Wire’ outranked other comparable shows because it “averaged more than 100 instances of profanity per episode”
It improves communication. By swearing, we not only communicate the meaning of a sentence but also our emotional reaction to it. It clearly lets someone know if they need to back off without having to resort to physical violence, and nobody wants to mess up a manicure when a well placed “back off you fucktarded asshat” will do.
It’s more persuasive. Studies have shown that swearing can increase the effectiveness and persuasiveness of a message. It is an intense, succinct and powerful way of expressing yourself. Ever read Go the Fuck to Sleep? It’s succinct.
It increases pain tolerance. Stub your toe and see how effective Rats! feels compared to Sweet muppity mother of Christ!!! Also, there are like 5 billion studies by real scientists backing this up. No, I’m not fucking linking all them, JFGI yourself. Okay, here’s one.
It correlates with a higher vocabulary. No, I did not just make this up, read this published the journal of Language Science. They concluded the people who could recall a lot of swear words also tended to be more eloquent in general.
It’s good for you. Health benefits of swearing include increased circulation, elevated endorphins, and an overall sense of calm, control, and well-being.
It means you’re creative. Fuck can be used as a noun, verb, adverb, adjective and interjection and it still makes fucking sense.
It’s cheaper than therapy and makes you feel better immediately.
Speaking of increased vocabulary, there are many British terms one can substitute and sound more cultured than crude. For example – “Yer fulla shite ye feckin’ arsehole” is a fancier way of saying “You’re full of shit you fucking asshole”. Options people, you always have options.
Creative swearing aside, I still know how to behave in polite society. I will not go all Pulp Fiction in front of your kids or when I meet your mother, unless she starts it, then we’ll probably get along famously. I am in complete control of my vocabulary, and would only say ‘fucknuggets’ when it is truly warranted. I have never said “shitgoose” or “Jesus Christ monkey balls” at church or a PTA meeting.
Just in case you were looking to expand your swearing vocabulary I’ve added some of my favourites, guaranteed to fill any swear jar
sassy jerk pants
Sweet muppity Christ
Son of a shit biscuit
Wanker (what one does before tossing)
Tosser (what one does after a wank)
Interminable suck bastard
Holy filet of fuck-minion
Knob, knobend, knobhead, knobber
Bag o’ shite
Cack-Handed (full of shite)
Bellend (head of a penis)
Bibbity bobity poop sac
Bastardised fuckwitted vagina captain
Flatulent bottom feeding wrangler
Hell’s own bunghole.
Badger-shagging spunk monkey
Fiery flagon of dragon toss
and from Christopher Moore’s “Fool”
“She can be a whirlwind of tits and terror when she puts her mind to a purpose, can’t she, sir?”
“You whoreson scalawag!” said I. “You flesh-turd dropped stinking from the poxy arsehole of a hare-lipped harlot!”
“Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair..”
“Love? Sodding, bloody, tossing, bloody, sodding, bloody love? Irrelevant, superfluous, bloody, ruddy, rotten, sodding love? What ho? Wherefore? What the f*ck? Love?”
Stages I go through in a breakup* (*not in any order whatsoever. *reserve the right to revisit bulletpoints)
Singing loudly with Annie Lennox, Aretha Franklin, Pink and Carrie Underwood while driving – am strong empowered woman who needs no man
Fetal position, rocking back and forth muttering things to the dog – am certain no will ever love me, that my hair will never behave respectably, that my feet are just plain ugly and I should just give up now and become a cat lady
Cool. I’m, like totally cool. No, actually I’m so important and so busy with all my important busy life things that I have no time to do anything buy my very important things that really just take up all of my time. Lord I just have no time to be worried about such trivial things! Am important, very busy person, anybody can see that, also I like wearing my pants inside out.
Fuck it. Fuck absolutely all of it. Fuck all of it somuch that I’m going to sit here and eat ice cream – NOT low fat or froyo, but FULL fat Ben and Fucking Jerry’s ice cream, AND I’m going to eat it straight from the container sitting on the couch at 11pm, because I can, okay??? Am so damn happy that no man will ever see me naked again that I’m gonna sit here and my godamm ice cream, okay?
Obsessively checking WhatsApp to see who’s online and when. Not because I care, I just happened to pick up my phone. Am totally in control here, and do not care when anyone is on line and not sending me messages. Do not care even a tiny bit. Absolutely did not just check my messages just now.
Hang out with hot 30somethings. Decide right after gorgeous blonde in short shorts says, hey you’re my mom’s age, you look good and that’s what’s really important that I need to hang with my 50something friends maybe a little more.
Make empowered decision to go see all Marvel/Xmen/Star Trek movies by myself, because dammit I am an empowered and free woman who needs no man to go to movies with. Also I can eat all the damn popcorn myself.
Buy a parrot, because… because honestly I’ve got nothing here, but I did buy a parrot who is learning to dance and sing to Brittany Spear’s Work Bitch, so that’s pretty entertaining.
Revisit the ‘Empowered/Fetal/Fuck All of Things’ Cycle for a few more rounds.
Journal, Meditate just like Mastin Kipp says I’m suppose to, because you know he’s a 30something who is apparently enlightened, or at least has a book and a blog and sends messages on YouTube from Maui on how to cope with heartbreak. (aside – he would likely frown benevolently on a few of my other coping mechanisms)
Fail spectacularly and not being petty and bitter. Journal about greater than average pettiness and bitterness. Meditate on super charged petty bitter non enlightened behavior that would disappoint Mastin.
Wonder if I should share any of this with my therapist, but then worry she will think less of me, then wonder if maybe I am not approaching this correctly. Decide I’m fine, and will tell my therapist so.
Draw picture. Write poems. Mock picture and poem. Buy $50 worth of art supplies to colour picture. Continue to mock now coloured in picture.
Buy cute dress, because Fuck it.
Buy new bra, because really Fuck it
Buy groovy top that 30somethings wouldn’t be caught dead in, but would probably say would look good on someone my age.
Look at bank account balance. Berate self over apparent complete lack of self control.
Remember that my birthday is in a week.
Fuck all the thoughts about what to do on your birthday. Will pretend to ignore the damn thing this year, and secretly stuff face with cupcakes and Ben and Jerry’s.
Re-examine feet. Decide they are the ugliest feet that have ever existed. Wear open toed sandals anyway, because Fuck it, no one will ever see me naked again, so why worry about ugly feet. Right moving on.
Wonder why you have to write all this shite only after midnight, and not in the morning like normal writers.
Debate major hair cut vs finally embracing dreads. Buy more hair product because bank account still had a few dollars in it. Decide that stress increases frizz, and hair products with cool smelling ingredients will decrease stress.
Write self depreciating blog, spends hours writing and rewriting it, finding pictures and clever gifs and memes instead of sleeping, because sleep is for wimps and people who have to have passable hair, pretty toes, and who don’t eat Ben and Jerry’s at midnight, who don’t need to sing Carrie Underwood in the car.
fairly accurate illustration of my brain and hair on an average day
So, you might already know I’m not the most meditative person on the planet.
Or maybe you think that because I’m a yoga teacher I’m just All Zen, All the time.
Right. About that. Left unattended, I have the average attention span of an over caffeinated squirrel.
So in the pursuit of some mental calm, for scraps to mental peace and quiet, for maybe 3 or 4 thought free nano seconds, for the answers to life the universe and everything, or maybe just how to figure out my “it’s really so fucking complicated I can’t even” relationship status (get ON that one willya Facebook?), I have started meditating again.
I drink Kombucha. I have a freaking LOTUS FLOWER tattoo. Still want to smack.
I also found Mastin Kipp and his blog The Daily Love and just to be safe I’m reading his book. Also, I started journalling. I have done these things before, but in my usual, mostly distracted about some little thing or another way, I had dropped both a long while ago in favour of more worthy pursuits, such as:
Ben and Jerry’s
Netflix with Ben and Jerry’s
Pokemon Go with Ben and Jerry’s
Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, but NOT Pinterest (not sure why, maybe I’ll pop over there for just a second)
All of the above with Ben and Jerry’s
Googling stupid things (long story, but you really, really, REALLY don’t ever want to Google ‘asshole yoga’ looking for funny yoga teacher stories. Just don’t. Learn from my mistake. Did you just Google it even though I said not too? Are you sorry now? Don’t ever say I never warned you.
Looking at approximately 3 bazillion* (*estimated, rounded down to the nearest bazillion) memes, images and gifs about being distracted, having monkey mind, having too many thoughts, Hyperbole and a Half, hair products (completely unrelated, because… Squirrel!) Wait But Why, and only just at this moment noticing The Irony.
Lamenting that I am now out of Ben and Jerry’s
I also discovered how fun passive aggressively coping with frustration by live Tweeting could be. Like, say that time I didn’t show up 15 minutes early to my Discount Tire appointment.
And you wonder why my friends dubbed me Zen Bitch.
So meditating. How hard could it be? I mean I used to belong to the is way cool Buddhist group that mediated for 2 freakin hours on Sundays. I semi regularly pop into a sensory deprivation float tank – Anicca Float Club, awesome place, and I can sit on my couch and do essentially absolutely nothing for hours (see Netflix, Ben and Jerry’s etc bullet points). Picking up meditation again should be a cake walk.
My monkey mind has apparently been doing one arm pushups while I was distracted with my other important pursuits. My monkey mind, because even my monkey mind has to be more special than anyone else’s, flings feces, screeches, grooms, and scratches in the most Inappropriate places and at the most Inappropriate times.
Ideal conditions – seen for approximately 3-4 nano seconds per week
On any given day my monkey mind is having a party with several friends you wouldn’t consider introducing to your mother, like ever, and my panic monster is running around the room flapping its arms and screaming at the monkeys to calm the fuck down. The rational thinker part is generally sitting crossed legged in the corner focused on my smart phone screen and considering the best Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat posts that would make me look the most clever, witty, intelligent and attractive.
And don’t forget my lofty journalling. I have made some profound insights in my beautiful hand made by a local artist with red and shiny gold bits on recycled paper.
Actual Profound Knowledge Quotes from my journal
my bed is super awesome!
well I sure fucked that up didn’t I?
hey, that think I fucked up? yep, did it again, but better this time
I think maybe I procrastinate more than the average bear
dammit* (*multiple entries also #dammit, because handwritten hash tagging is a thing, I think, maybe….)
people are not behaving, this is irritating
Party on Garth
Fuckity Fuck Fuckery with a side of Fuckstockings
My hair today, wtf?
meditation is irritating
why the fuck am I doing this to myself?
#dammit todo list!
developing good habits is a pain in the ass
Motherfucking Lord of Middle Aged women! What was I thinking?! ** (**personal fav)
3 responsible things in 1 day – BOOM!
Donald Trump, no words
Why am I still awake?
I did my MF journal and mediation, so am actually a total boss today
I may or may not be able to move mañana
Spanish, ye gods! (see ** comment)
FIVE extra minutes of meditation – fist pump for me!
day 3 of not giving fucks about this, yah me.
I don’t wanna
I might not have approached that in the most mature manner
My dog and I have a few things in common it would seem
Do NOT Google ‘asshole yoga’ looking for funny yoga stories (see ** comment)
and now for MORE flung feces
confirmation bias is actually a thing, like whoa
Burning Man….. now there’s a thought
So yeah, I’m still figuring this stuff out. And that’s okay. I suppose…. mostly.
It didn’t happen when I turned 50, but sometime after I turned 51 I stopped caring so desperately about what people thought of me, and I have to say that it is really fucking awesome (yes, I will use profanity when I want to – Sorry. NOT sorry, who am I kidding). I still have moments where I grab the “rock of really giving a fuck about what you think about me” I used to wear like a raincoat, and haul it around for a while, but I just can’t be bothered to carry that weight anymore, ya know? In one way the “swirling shit storm” of my life the last several months (years, really) has helped me let go of many things simply because they are too heavy to keep carrying.
There are things I will not apologize for anymore, and if you don’t like me because of it, I’m really, really super-fucking-okay with that.
You don’t like my politics? Great!
My life choices? Fucking Awesome!
My tattoos? More power to ya!
My sarcastic, sassy and profanity laced language? I will somehow manage to carry on without your fucking approval.
Can’t decide if I’m worth dating? Sayonara, Adios amigo, Caio bello, sich verabschieden, d’adieu, tchüss. (because I totally AM worth it, ‘Slaying Dragons For’ kind of worth it, and I can’t spend my time with someone who doesn’t think so).
There also things I will apologize for, because like most humans, I can be a self-centered asshole on a remarkably regular basis. Those things I try to be accountable for and apologize. Things like running about 5-15 late on a staggeringly regular basis. I do apologize for this, but I haven’t suffered enough negative consequences from this for me to alter my behaviour yet. That and forgetting your name, I have a smooth spot on my brain where people’s names are stored, it’s not you, it’s me. Really, really.
The point is, most of us struggle throughout our lives by giving too many fucks in situations where fucks do not deserve to be given. We give a fuck about the rude gas station attendant who gave us too many nickels. We give a fuck when a show we liked was canceled on TV. We give a fuck when our coworkers don’t bother asking us about our awesome weekend. We give a fuck when it’s raining and we were supposed to go jogging in the morning.
Fucks given everywhere. Strewn about like seeds in mother-fucking spring time. And for what purpose? For what reason? Convenience? Easy comforts? A pat on the fucking back maybe?
This is the problem, my friend.
Because when we give too many fucks, when we choose to give a fuck about everything, then we feel as though we are perpetually entitled to feel comfortable and happy at all times, that’s when life fucks us.
And life will fuck you over, and over, and over, that’s just the way life is. It is also beautiful, tragic, sacred, messy and glorious . Our big mistake is to think the world, that life, that God owe us something. That we are supposed to be, #happy, #blessed, #blissful and need to share this with all our Twitter/Facebook/Instagram/Wordpress followers all the fucking time. Seriously?
Here’s the thing, the world, life, the universe, God and everything else you want to call it, do not owe you one single solitary fucking thing, got that? Does Not Owe You. Nada. Nothing. Zilch. Pas du tout. Nichts. We are not here to be entertained, to be taken care of, to have all our superficial and egocentric whims catered to. Life does not owe us. Life does not owe us a certain lifestyle, a six pack, an adoring partner, lots of money, an easy go of it, and when we caught up in the Super Sucky Vortex of Entitlement and we think that somehow we deserve these things, that we deserve all the stuff, all the fucking junk that we have been told over and over that we should have, when we get stuck in that vortex of really giving a fuck about the stupid shit, that is when we are most miserable.
Okay, so my title may be slightly misleading. I do give a fuck about somethings, not about what you think of me, or my life, my family or any of that, I give a fuck about what’s truly fuckworthy. In my 20’s I gave the most sincere fucks about the stupidest things. I tried, I tried so damn hard to be what I thought people wanted me to be. It made me fucking miserable. As I aged, and occasionally matured, I found I didn’t have the energy to give a fuck about anything that wasn’t worth it. The clarity about what is important, what is worth giving a fuck about is what has liberated me. I am not apathetic, I am simply not will to waste my time and my fucks on anything unimportant.
Which is what exactly? We are here to give back, to be of fucking service to our fellow humans, to those who hold no power over us, to animals, to plants, to our mother, the fucking earth. What we need to do is to take care of each other. Is that so hard? Because it sure seems like it’s really fucking hard for people. And this is where I actually do give a fuck. I give a fuck about that homeless guy that you pretend you don’t see. I give a fuck about the recycling you just tossed in the street, about the dog you left in a hot car, about the plastic floating in the ocean, about being kind to the person who seems to least deserve it, about feeding people who are hungry.
I give a fuck about a lot of things, just not what you may or may not think of me. Hasta la vista.