I just don’t care anymore, I told her.
I seriously think you’re just out of shits to give, she replied. Tapped out. Over everything.
Over life, I responded. Not really. But.
Yep, she said.
Almost six months ago, I was out of shits to give. Namely because I gave a shit about every. single. thing. Feelings of my best friends. Feelings of strangers on BART. Feelings of homeless people. How people felt about me (friends, strangers, homeless people, etc). How I felt about other people. If I was likable. If I was worth liking when doing X, Y, or Z. If I was bad at soccer and who was judging me for not being better. If I was good at sex. If I should be writing things like that down in a public blog my boss/mom could potentially see. If anyone else actually gave a shit. When I should eat. When I should run. Where I should sit.
Giving that many shits was my way of seeking validation for being alive. For being me.But this whole new world of self-validation has changed all of that.
I actually give more shits, in some respect, because the shits I give are about ten thousand times deeper. I have my own validation (usually), so all external and shallow shit-giving is relatively moot. The only shit I give is about myself, my feelings, and anything I can actually influence.
You think it’s weird that I agreed to take off my shirt, agreed to be body painted, and hung out in my bra with a bunch of strangers as part of my Saturday night? Yep, don’t give a shit. I think it’s awesome that I’ve come a long way since being 16, 18, 22, 24, 26 and 28 and hating my body. So far long that I can take off my shirt in a room of strangers and hang out with a phoenix painted on me. I also think it’s awesome that this morning I went running with that face paint still in tact, decorating my face.
And I give a lot of shits about that.