I say I don’t give a fuck a lot. But the truth is I do. I give a lot of fucks a lot of the time over a lot of things.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, when I go out and I haven’t shaved in a month, and it’s 106 and I’m wearing shorts. Seeing the hair on my legs gives me pause before I get out of my car in the parking lot. That little fuck shows up like “maybe you should have worn pants..“ but I shut the fuck up looking at the temperature gauge in my car and see that body hair as the part of me that it is. It is not disgusting like “they” have told me. It is not to be ashamed of. If it wasn’t meant to be there, it wouldn’t be.
I feel the fucks rise when I put on a pair of shorts and my inner thighs bulge out a little. That one small “fold” on my left leg that everytime I look at I throw the shorts to the side and opt for yoga pants. I do it to myself. I give the fuck myself. I put myself in the shoes of a stranger and I turn and look and angle myself in every way that I know I stand or how I walk and I fixate. Fixate. Fixate. I stare at it until that tiny fold turns into my entire body and I try to find the biggest teeshirt and the most loose pair of jeans I own or just not go out at all. After I see the mess I made trying on different pairs of the same shorts I laugh and fold the fucks I gave, up in the boyfriend jeans that are 2 sizes too big for me and hang the fuck up with the men’s XL dress of a shirt. I look at my body and I give thanks. Thank you. Thank you for giving my the strength that I have to laugh these fucks away. To hold this love that I’m learning to give unconditionally to myself like I do for others. To have given me so much already without ever taking. For having the intuition that you do. For enduring the trauma and loss that you, that we, have. And that fold shrinks, is no longer my body, no longer my fixation. The shorts go back on. I appreciate the fold and acknowledge what it means for it to exist. It means that I exist. It means that my body has grown with me. It is a really reminder of the battles we fought. It’s a reminder of strength. That I’m a human and my skin suit is not the meaning of who I am and does not tell my story, but is there as a reminder for myself. It’s the human condition, I think, to give a fuck about things. I think if we don’t then how could we truly claim humanity? How can we claim one emotion without its counterpart? I like to give a fuck but one just enough of a fuck to matter to me.