The Beautiful Art of Not Giving a Shit
There are so many wonderful things about being in your thirties. For one, you start doing things before midnight, or “slut hours” as my friend’s mother calls them. Bar dwelling and dinner reservations happen at normal times, like eight o’clock, and it’s okay. You suddenly become comfortable with not shellacking makeup on your face every single day, and in general you just kind of stop giving a shit about the little things. Life is good, I often repeat in my head when I catch myself in those carefree moments where my twenty-two year old self would have shuddered.
I had one of my “who gives a shit?” moments yesterday. After spending the past two days hunched over my laptop, my neck was in serious pain. The stress of editing up to the last second before my book is fully formatted and ready to send off to Amazon, coupled with the fact that I hadn’t really removed myself from the seated position for a good forty-eight hours had taken a toll on me. At one point I stood up, looked at my husband, and nearly burst into tears. “I can’t do this! I need a break!” I shouted frantically. After pouring me an emergency glass of red wine, he insisted I go to the nail salon for a back massage. One of the great things about living in New York City is that you don’t have to go to a fancy spa to get a massage. You can get a quick fix (that feels just as good) for just about a dollar a minute at any nail salon in the tri-state area. “Just get a twenty minute massage, I’ll pay. You’re in pain babe, you deserve it.” It took me all of two minutes to decide this was non negotiable, and I quickly marched my non-showered, greasy ponytailed self up to Mimi’s Nail Spa.
It didn’t even occur to me that I looked like Honey Boo Boo’s mother until I caught a glimpse of myself in the window reflection of the pizza place before making my way into the nail place. I was wearing a pair of sweatpants with some kind of tribal art design going down the left leg (part of my JWoww Halloween costume from 2010), a sports bra, and a gym t-shirt. I sported flip flops (they were Diane Von Furstenberg – the only part of my ensemble I was proud of), but my toes were begging for a pedicure and the chipped polish was a dead giveaway that I had basically given up on life. As shocking as my reflection was, I immediately let it go. I needed that massage more than air and as I sat there, being rubbed, kneaded, and karate-chopped, I was in heaven.
Twenty dollars and twenty blissful minutes later, I left Mimi’s feeling refreshed, energized, and ready to get back to work. My JWoww sweats and chipped toenails meant nothing. I strolled out onto the avenue and caught a glimpse of myself again in Nino’s window. My ponytail was coming undone and my mascara was now on my cheekbones. I giggled and took a photo of myself with my iPhone. Life is good.