There comes a magical age in a woman’s life when something shifts.
I’m not sure exactly when it happens.
Maybe it’s 50.
Maybe it’s 60.
Maybe it happens the first time you make a little noise when you stand up and realize you no longer care who heard it.
But eventually, you enter the glorious stage of life I like to call:
ZERO FUDGE GIVEN.
And let me clarify something.
Zero Fudge Given does not mean you don’t care about anything.
Oh, we care.
We care deeply about our families.
We care about our pets.
We care about whether there’s enough coffee in the house.
We care about comfortable shoes, good toilet paper, and whether the restaurant has chairs that won’t require a crane to get us back out of them.
What we have stopped caring about is nonsense.
And frankly, it’s wonderful.
At 25, I worried about what everybody thought of me.
At 62?
You don’t like my shirt?
That’s unfortunate.
For you.
I’m comfortable.
Zero Fudge Given.
Someone thinks my hair should be longer, shorter, darker, lighter, straighter, curlier?
Interesting.
I spent 45 years fighting with this hair.
We have reached a peace agreement.
Zero Fudge Given.
You don’t like that I go to bed at 9:30?
Perfect.
That means you probably won’t call me after 9:00.
Zero Fudge Given.
And somewhere along the way, I also stopped feeling obligated to attend everything.
Years ago, if someone invited me somewhere I didn’t want to go, I would spend three days developing an excuse worthy of a courtroom defense.
“Well, I’d love to come, but Bruce’s cousin’s neighbour is having a thing and I think we promised to maybe stop by…”
Now?
“Thanks for inviting me, but I’m staying home.”
Doing what?
Nothing.
And I have been looking forward to it all week.
Zero Fudge Given.
I also no longer need everyone to agree with me.
You can have your opinion.
I can have mine.
We can both go home and eat snacks.
Nobody needs to organize a committee.
This may actually be one of the greatest gifts of getting older.
You finally realize how much time you spent worrying about things that absolutely did not matter.
Was my house clean enough?
Did I say the wrong thing?
Do these pants make me look bigger?
Does that person like me?
Should I have brought a better casserole?
Meanwhile, life was quietly moving along while we were standing in front of the mirror changing shirts six times.
Not anymore.
These days, if the pants fit, they’re going on.
If the house is reasonably clean, come on in.
If you see dust, congratulations on your excellent eyesight.
If you don’t like me, I sincerely hope you find someone you do like.
And if I don’t want to do something?
I have discovered a remarkable little word.
No.
No explanation.
No 14-page supporting document.
No PowerPoint presentation.
Just…
No, thank you.
Look at us growing.
Of course, reaching the Zero Fudge Given stage doesn’t mean we’ve become cranky old women yelling at clouds.
Although if the cloud is doing something irritating, I reserve the right.
It means we finally understand that our energy is valuable.
And we’re not wasting it on things that don’t deserve it.
Drama?
Zero Fudge Given.
Gossip?
Okay, maybe five minutes.
I’m still human.
Uncomfortable shoes?
Zero Fudge Given.
Bras with underwire?
I have questions.
People who constantly make us feel bad?
Sorry.
The Fudge Department is closed.
And the beautiful thing about getting older is that you slowly stop auditioning for your own life.
You’re already in.
You got the part.
And after decades of trying to be everything to everybody, there is something wonderfully freeing about finally saying:
This is me.
Salt-and-pepper hair.
Reading glasses in every room.
A purse containing enough supplies to survive a minor emergency.
A bedtime that would horrify my 25-year-old self.
And a rapidly declining interest in anybody’s unsolicited opinion about any of it.
So here’s to the Zero Fudge Given years.
Not because we stopped caring.
But because we finally figured out what’s worth caring about.
And everything else?
Well…
Zero. Fudge. Given. 😉
