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4 Things I Don't Give a F*ck About Anymore (And You Shouldn't Either)

I turned 32 on Tuesday—and, now, I'm a woman on a mission. With my advanced age, I’m on a mission to really start living my life and not waste time or energy on things that truly don’t matter.

If I have to hit an age where suddenly I have to pluck chin whiskers every week (I mean, seriously, WHY?), it's a clear sign from the universe that it's time for me to stop giving a fuck about other things in my life, such as the following.

My messy house

Listen, I know a lot of people say they don’t care about their messy houses, and I know it’s hip and cool in the online parenting world to say things like “let the dishes go!” but in reality, that’s freaking hard to do. I don’t know about you, but I don’t like to live in a messy house. So, I clean. And clean some more. And clean again.

But, dammit, that means I have now officially spent over 16 years of my life cleaning, taking into account the fact that my mom made me start doing the dishes at the age of 8. And I’m over it. I want some semblance of order in my life but I’m not willing to waste my life cleaning anymore, which has led me to two solutions: 1) ruthlessly throw out more crap around my house (look out, kids!), or 2) hire a housekeeper once a month.

Say what you will about me, but I’m over it. I’m the one that gets to live my life—not anyone else.

My appearance

In some ways, I'm still reeling from the fact that I am now pretty much middle-aged, but in other ways I'm feeling a little bit relieved that some of the pressure is off. I'm no longer “cool” in any way, shape or form. My years of “hotness” are officially behind me. This week, I considered wearing a fanny pack unironically. It is what it is, by this point. Sorry, world.

Either I need to find a solution or accept it, because all this resentment is ultimately only going to hurt me.

My resentment

There’s a lot of talk about the emotional and mental load that women carry, and I will be the first one to admit that it’s a real thing and that it’s freaking hard. But what’s even harder is how much I dwell on what I'm doing and my husband isn’t. All those school papers? My responsibility. All the household supplies? Still mine. That bill that was late? Mine again.

Sometimes, it feels like I'm doing triple the amount of work—first in remembering the task that needs to be done, then in actually doing it and then stewing in bitterness that I am the one that has to do it. My resentment isn’t getting us anywhere, so I’m working hard on letting it go. Either I need to find a solution or accept it, because all this resentment is ultimately only going to hurt me.

My husband’s dirty socks

Along the same vein, I am no longer stressing about my husband’s dirty socks on the floor. I refuse to pick them up and I refuse to let them bother me when I walk past them 8,481 times during the day. They can stay there and gather mold, for all I care.

So, there you have it: My bold steps to letting go of the things that have been holding me back all of this time starts now, dirty socks and all.

Who knew life after 30 could be so exciting?

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