About two minutes after I’d met him, the experienced hairdresser said, “You’d look 10 years younger if you colored your hair.”
Not only do I not give a shit about looking younger, I don’t even know why I’d want to give a shit.
I no longer give a shit, even a tiny bitsy little bit when men are offended because I let them know that inappropriate comments are unwelcome and unwanted.
The damned thing is turned off most of the time because I’m trying to preserve my sanity.
Some of our dishtowels are well over 30 years old, bought in Scotland before my husband and I were married. Boy, linen sure does hold up well! I rarely notice that they are faded, torn, and stained because—you guessed it—I just don’t give a shit.
It does give me some joy, but is not the most important thing in my life and I am aware that most people do not give a shit about what I wear.
They migrate off of the shelf and end up on every available surface.But I love them and feel that there can never be enough time to read all the books I want to. So I don’t give a shit if they add to the clutter.
I understand that skydiving is something that’s fun and exciting for many, and I mean no disrespect when I say, please go have fun, but I will never give a shit about it. Physical challenges of this sort scare me and I’m already scared enough of getting shot by somebody on my way to buy toothpaste or having a fascist dictator take over my country.
I prefer a mechanical pencil to a pen. Who, other than me, gives a shit about this? Nobody.