There is an upside to all these candles, there has to be. I’m telling you as a “Lady of a Certain Age” on the slippery sleigh ride into Old Batdom, that the key to successful modern living is to practise the fine art of detachment. It is one of the principals of Buddhism. To not give a shit is a tangible entity. The path of enlightenment is paved with zero fucks.
Forget about “aging gracefully” the older you get the more you fall. There is nothing graceful about taking out the garbage in the morning and slipping on wet leaves and falling on your ass and landing in the dog poop area of your front lawn only to have your hot neighbour help you up and you are wearing a coffee stained Old Navy Tshirt and your weekend bra pops open as he pulls you up by the armpits. Oh yeah,and afterwards you realize your pyjama pants have blood on the crotch and you have to console yourself with the thought: “At least he knows I still get my period!” True story and one ugly anecdote.
Wisdom is over-rated. I only know all this shit about life because I have been slapped around the block a few times and I troll the internet 8 hours a day. I would have been perfectly happy living to a hundred not knowing that a dude will actually lie and think nothing of treating your heart like a urinal mint. All that time wasted I could have just pleasantly masturbated to reruns of Gunsmoke. Life would also be golden if I didn’t google up “goatse” and “tub girl-” why must I need to know everything?
And fuck Cameron Diaz. Here she is in Esquire:
Here is what she says: “For the first time in my life I’m content. I’m so excited. Getting older is the best part of life. Like, I know more than I’ve ever known. I have gratitude. I know myself better. I feel more capable than ever. And as far as the physicality of it — I feel better at 40 than I did at 25.”
Shut. Up. Turning 40 was the worst thing I ever did. I will explain it all with this graph that took me two hours to make from a template on a children’s website. Growing older doesn’t make you good at the internet, by the way, in spite of all the time spent on it:
The bottom numbers are age, and the number at the side represent “Fucks Given per year” which by my definition means how many days a year your ego gets the better of you. And Cameron here is demonstrating how your undergarments reflect the state of your fat-ass evil ego. Let me explain.
At Age 10, zero fucks are given because who cares? You are 10, you walk out of the house wearing mismatched socks. You think nothing of stuffing an entire pack of gum in your mouth while walking down the street singing at the top of your lungs. Your hair is a mess and you got lice on purpose, it’s hilarious! You get to miss school! You do not need a bra and your mother buys your Hello Kitty cotton underwear.
By Age 20, you don’t have to give a fuck because all the free fucks are given to you. You can walk out of the house wearing your period underwear and some creeper will ask for your number because he smells fresh meat. Your ego is not yet fully formed because you are invincible. You also cut your own hair and it looks fantastic. Maybe once a month or so you will get a zit and feel bloated and you will cry because the last dude you gave your number to won’t call in a timely manner but that mood won’t last longer than a day, so maybe you will give only about 12 fucks a year, tops.
At Age 30, things are slipping a little. The metabolic shift that your older sister predicted has fully kicked in and you have to worry about muffin tops. At this age you are probably wearing matching bra and underwear because you think he thinks it is sexy. Pro tip: Absolutely no one cares, Victoria Secret, especially the dude you are banging. But sometimes you need Spanx because that “bloat” is actually a flesh belt…remember when you were twenty and all you had to do was drink a pot of tea and you lost five pounds? You worry about all this on a weekly basis. Also you are plucking your chin hairs routinely with a magnifying mirror. Why did this happen? It’s super sexy testosterone building up for your forties! Hold on to your hooters, sister, because you’re in for a bumpy ride.
Aaaaand you are 40….it’s subtle at first but things are really starting to go tits up (or down, technically)…Everything needs to be pushed up, sucked in, and smoothed out. Your hair has become a full time job. You need professionals from around the world for every different type of follicle, not just on your head, but your brows need a Russian woman, your pubes need a Brazilian, and your Korean pedicurist waxes your toe hairs, and oh, how she laughs. And notice on the graph how the 40 year old woman gives a fuck 24/7, 365 days of the year?
40-something women are consumed with themselves. They walk out of the house with their tits pushed up, and their leggings as pants. They don’t need actual underwear! The 40 year old woman is twice as likely to have sex at the gym than any other demographic so they would just get in the way. The 40 year old woman has a mojo like a teenage boy. She gives so many fucks that she will easily give one away if you ask her, go ahead ask her.
Trust me, this way of life is exhausting. But relief is on its way (at least I am hoping). And this is where the art of detachment comes into play. Listen up, because the magazines won’t tell you this little secret: The older you get, the less you care.
There is a rapid decline of fuck giving at the age of 50. All that unbridled mojo is getting a bit embarrassing, isn’t it, Demi Moore? The phantom ovulator or the full moon will pull you back in once a month and will only give a fuck because you are hornier than a Hoover. You will match your black bra with black Spanx and some sluttier sisters will wear a thong with those jeggings. You are now dyeing your own hair because Botox costs $11 a unit and you need 30 to get rid of that bitter expression that is keeping the boys away. Trust me, a few squirts of poison in your forehead every 3 or 4 months and you can still charm your way out of a traffic ticket. So worth it.
At 60, you give zero fucks again, not like when you were ten, you would never put an entire pack of gum in your mouth but! You would think nothing of dropping $8,000 on a set of veneers. Who gives a fuck, YOLO? Sometimes you don’t even bother with a bra, Susan Sarandon lets hers off-leash so why not? And fuck Spanx, they ride up the ass, those boxer briefs the cabana boy left will do just fine. Snap!
Hopefully as you go further on the chart, you have your health and you mind, and you will get a cake full of candles that you can light your cig off of…I will wash mine down with bourbon, and wear my bra on my head like a party chapeau. And I will yell:
I am bat, hear me roar!