Useless worries

To quote Gore Vidal, “As I now move, graciously, I hope, toward the door marked Exit,” I keep having these thoughts. Thoughts that make me laugh. And I need a laugh.

They have to do with all the things I worried about in my life—big and small. Now, approaching that door, I realize so many had no relevance at all.

Swearing is one of them.

I worried far too much in my life, for instance, that if I said “fuck” in the wrong company, the world would collapse. Things would fall apart, the center would not hold. The horror! But I’ve seen the normalization of that word and others like it come incredibly fast. Even in the most regulated and conservative environments.

Did you hear the mayor of Minneapolis on national television say, “ICE, get the fuck out of Minneapolis”?

What’s next, Sesame Street?

Oscar the Grouch: “Get me the fuck out of this fucking garbage can!”

I remember when I was a kid, back in the 1950s, there was absolutely no swearing allowed in our household. If we kids even said “damn”—well, watch out. “Goddamn” would’ve sent us to our room, or worse. I don’t think I even heard the word “fuck” anywhere until I was in my teens away in boarding school. My mother was the strictest about these kinds of matters, far more than my father. He swore mildly, much to the annoyance of my mother. “Honey! Don’t say that in front of the kids!” she’d reprimand.

Later, after my parents’ divorce, and after my mother moved to New York City and she was in her sixties, one day I was visiting her when she said about something, “I don’t give a fuck about that.”

What? Mom???????!!!!! WTF??????

You knew that word all along????

The dam burst, and after that we could hardly hold her back. What kind of sailor did I have as a mother? I have to admit, it took me a while to get used to, but I was glad she felt at ease enough, finally, to let it fly. Soon, she was using the word more than I was. I couldn’t take her anywhere.

I wonder how many of you out there experienced the same thing. You grew up in the tight-waisted 1950s with “proper” mothers, and then came the Women’s Movement with its great loosening of belts and all of a sudden your Leave It To Beaver mom is saying, “Fuck it!” Which is what she, and I suspect many other moms, wanted to say all along.

And guess what? Things didn’t fall apart. The center held. There was no horror. Nothing to worry about, and never was.

So, frankly, my dears, who gives a damn?