Nobody Cares

I recently read an article by Ellen Scherr titled “Aging Out of Fucks: The Neuroscience of Why You Suddenly Can’t Pretend Anymore.”  

In it, she describes what she calls “the Great Unfuckening,” which she defines as “that point in midlife when your capacity to pretend, perform, and please others starts shorting out like an electrical system that’s finally had enough.”  

I laughed when I read that because I understood exactly what she meant.

At first glance, this kind of shift can sound harsh. Like women hit a certain age and suddenly become difficult or selfish or impossible to deal with. But I don’t think that is what is happening at all.

At least, it doesn’t feel that way to me.

It feels more like realizing that softening every truth does not actually change the truth. Sometimes diplomacy is useful and kind. Sometimes it is just emotional upholstery. The thing underneath still exists. The conversation still has to happen. The consequence still arrives eventually.

That doesn’t mean I want to stomp around the world making everyone uncomfortable simply because I am older and more tired.

I still care about people.

I still care about participating in society.

I still pick up my dog’s poop.

In fact, this morning while walking Sulley through the neighbourhood, I noticed myself making a whole production out of removing the bag from the dispenser and opening it dramatically before cleaning up after him. Not consciously exactly, but performatively enough that I suddenly became aware of it halfway through.

I realized I wanted any invisible audience of neighbours to know that I, too, am a responsible citizen who understands the social contract of dog ownership.

Which is ridiculous.

Not the picking up part. Obviously I would pick it up regardless. But the strange instinct to publicly demonstrate that I was picking it up fascinated me.

Because there was another option available to me. I could have quietly done the decent thing without worrying whether anybody witnessed it.

That feels connected somehow to another moment I had recently, although in a completely different way.

A little while ago I went to see a comedian in Niagara Falls wearing an outfit so bright and flashy that I genuinely looked like a peacock wandering through a sensible monochrome clothing convention.

Years ago, I would have worried about that.

I would have wondered whether I was overdressed or too visible or attracting attention in a way that made other people uncomfortable. I might have changed before leaving the house.

Instead, I spent the evening completely delighted by what I was wearing.

Not because I wanted attention.

Because I loved my outfit and how it made me feel.

That, to me, is the difference.

There are still things I care about because they affect other people in real and tangible ways. Cleaning up after your dog affects the people around you. Being reasonably considerate of shared spaces matters.

But wearing colour? Wearing silk? Looking slightly theatrical at a comedy show in Niagara Falls?

The impulse against it feels like part of those rules women absorb quietly over decades without ever fully agreeing to them.

Blend in.
Don’t be too loud.
Don’t make people uncomfortable.
Don’t draw attention to yourself unless you’re yelling “Fire!”

Meanwhile, men have been wearing Hawaiian shirts to dinner since 1978 without a second thought.

Another thing came to mind while reading Scherr’s article.

Yesterday I was filming a series of Instagram stories about different ways to style our Waterfall Top. As many of you know, what you see in those videos is genuinely me. There is very little performance involved. I turn the camera on and start talking.

Unfortunately, menopause has apparently introduced a new and exciting feature where my brain occasionally swaps words around like a tipsy librarian reshelving books.

So during these stories, I repeatedly called the Waterfall Top a Kimono-Sleeved Top. At one point I called a cardigan a vest. Everything was flowing together so naturally that I didn’t even notice until much later while reviewing the posted stories. I actually thought we should make my mistaken style labelling into a drinking game!

Ten years ago this would have mortified me.

Actually, five years ago it would have mortified me.

I would have obsessed over whether people noticed. Whether it made me seem unprofessional. Whether someone would interpret it as incompetence. Whether I should re-film the entire thing to preserve the illusion that my brain functions like a perfectly indexed filing cabinet at all times.

Now?

I mostly found it funny.

Not because I suddenly take my work less seriously. I care deeply about what I do. I still want things to be done well.

But I am beginning to suspect that most people are extending far more grace to one another than we imagine.

I think many of us move through life believing we are under constant review. As though everyone around us is carefully documenting our mistakes, our awkward moments, our wrong word choices, our visible stomachs, our strange outfits, our emotional reactions, our humanity.

Meanwhile, most people are busy trying to survive their own Thursday.

The phrase “nobody cares” sounds depressing at first.

But I am starting to think there is another way to hear it.

Most people do not care if you accidentally use the wrong word in an Instagram story.

Your outfit being brighter than everyone else’s is rarely the crisis we imagine it to be.

And perfection turns out not to be a requirement for participating in public life.

I think most people are far more forgiving than we expect them to be.

Because if you make enough room for yourself to be human, eventually people will find space for you to be human too.