My Middle-Age F*ck It List
There's a big gaping hole in the bucket and I don't care.
Middle-age is not just night sweats and chin hairs. There’s a lot of perks that come with passing the halfway mark. I may have less taste buds and muscle mass, but I also have way less shits to give about things I used to care about. Or rather, things I don’t care about, but care about people knowing I don’t care about them.
I know, right?
Let me tell you, getting old is great, but apathy is liberating! While some people are busy cultivating a bucket list, I’ve been pecking away at my F*ck It List. You can count me out of the following. Go ahead and judge. Seriously. I no longer care!
The Middle-Aged Lady Mom’s Official F*CK IT LIST
The Mediocre Outdoors
I didn’t move to the Pacific Northwest for the hiking, skiing, or five active volcanoes. The first time my friend Dan and I tried this “hiking” thing so many of my friends were fond of, we headed to Mount Rainier (where all beginners go for their first hike) and devoured two footlong Subway sandwiches, seven pounds of trail mix, four power bars, and a gallon of Gatorade before we completed one loop of the parking lot. We seriously spent more time debating banana peppers with the Subway Sandwich Artist than exploring the majestic wonder of the PNW.
This is sacrilege, people. Like a real, big affront to the Teva-wearing, tent pitching, fly-fishing men and women who surround me. It’s offensive. Like wearing mesh panel convertible pants to a wedding. I mean, who does that? Oh, I don’t know– maybe EIGHT PEOPLE AT MY WEDDING!
When people tell me about their camping trips and show me pictures of their TRAILERS packed with all the things they need to survive 6 days in the Cascade Mountains and get all excited to try the COWBOY METHOD of coffee making, I can’t help but roll my eyes and say, Gross. Sorry.
Don’t get me wrong. Outdoors is beautiful. I am constantly marveling at the beauty that surrounds me. I adore a good, cold day drink on a nice, covered patio. But I also like going home– to sleep. In my Heavenly Bed. And eat my perishable food that has been kept cool in my dual cool zoned refrigerator while sitting in front of a fully-charged electronic device.
When it comes to the great outdoors I’m definitely less Bear Grylls and more Naked and Afraid. (Only not naked because I also love wearing clothes. Especially clean ones that were washed in a machine and don’t sound like a cacophony of 7,492 shushing librarians when I walk.)
Think of your pioneer ancestors! They would be appalled!
Adventure Time
There was a time when it felt like it was my duty to throw myself out of an airplane or take a spin on that stupid roller coaster atop the Stratosphere casino in Vegas, or even want to go to Vegas, but I’m over it. There’s plenty of ways to enjoy myself that don’t involve a 30-page waiver and a camel-toe inducing harness.
On vacation in Australia my more adventurous friends wanted to go white water rafting. I agreed because I liked the sound of stories that began with, “That time I went white water rafting in Australia…” (Non-adventurous people still like sounding adventurous.)
The night before our expedition, it rained with the wrath of 1,000 pissing horses. So much rain we thought our trip would be canceled because surely the entire continent would be untethered from its island roots and float even further down under. But alas…turns out lots of rain meant lots of water and lots of water meant gushing, surging roaring death traps, which apparently is good for riding the rapids. Our Class 2 introductory rapids got promoted to Class 837.
When it was finally over, the tour group took us to a bar to get us drunk enough to buy the commemorative photo package. When I went back to the bar for my sixth attempt to block out the day’s events, the photographer grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed in my face.
“YOU!” she yelled. “YOU WERE WONDERFUL!”
“What the hell?”
“Your face!” she screamed. “So expressive! I could have shot you all day.”
MY FACE??? My face that was expressing horror and terror and impending death was f’ing wonderful? YOU WERE STEALING THE SOUL OF A WOMAN RIGHT OUT OF THE HANDS OF THE GRIM REAPER! How dare you exploit my pain and suffering for your profit AND YES I WILL BUY THE WHOLE PACKAGE!
HELLicopters: The Devil’s Transport
Basically if I lived in Adventure Bay and needed to get out of a jam, Skye would be the last member of the Paw Patrol I’d want saving my ass. Look, Skye, it’s not because you’re a squeaky voiced, goofy-grinned, talking dog. It’s your prefered method of transportation. I don’t do helicopters. Not even hot pink ones. Just go get Rocky or Zuma or even Mayor Goodway, ‘k?
Helicopters are like super drunk people who can’t walk a straight line and need to lean on telephone poles and other drunk people to stay upright. There’s no good reason (other than aero-mechanics–but, whatevs!) why they should stay airborne.
We went to Hawaii for a babymoon and thought it would be fun to do a helicopter tour. Why look at a waterfall from the ground when you can soar through the mist 4,000 feet above? And because we were stupid jackasses with terrible judgement (see: BABYMOON) we chose the doorless option.
First shitty thing to happen was having our weight WRITTEN DOWN ON AN INDEX CARD and propped up on the instrument panel so the pilot could tell the bloated, insecure pregnant chick when to shift her burgeoning weight to her left ass cheek. You see, weight distribution matters on a helicopter because again— they’re assholes. I’m pretty sure Marlene from Columbus, OH in the backseat didn’t want me to know she weighed 183 pounds and I sure as hell didn’t want her to know I was a pregnant stress eater. Also, doesn’t the pilot need to actually read those instruments he so carelessly covered up with our weights? How am I supposed to trust this guy? And how did I gain 8 pounds on the flight over?
Letting Teenaged Cosplayers Terrify Me
A few friends and I thought it would be fun to visit a haunted house sponsored by the worst radio station in the county. That should have been our first clue. The second clue should have been the sounds of people possibly shitting themselves coming from inside, but nope. I could totally handle these low-budget, Spirit-of-Halloween high school theater kids and their Pinterest reject craft projects.
Spoiler alert: I could not.
I screamed like an awkward, overdramatic B-movie queen understudy who was a stellar method actor.
Know what happens when asshole carnies hear fear? It gets them hot and sweaty. They want more. Out came the clown-pants maniac revving the chainsaw in my face. Out came the cold spaghetti on the back of my neck. Out came the zombie surgeons and throat-slit starlets and decapitated doll heads with their bleary stares. These schulbs made it their minimum-wage mission to hunt me down, corner me in a cobwebby corner and breathe in my ear. I shoved some long-haired guy in a flannel right into a cardboard coffin and beat feet. (He may or may not have been part of thehaunted house.) Not today, Chuckie! Not any day! Nobody puts this baby in a corner!
Striking Out
Yes, I will play some backyard hoops. Yes, I still rock at kickball. And yes, I’m dabbling in the pickleball arts. But there really is no greater feeling than knowing no gym teacher can force me to play softball ever again.
I tried to be on a team when I was 10 and the only time I got on base was when I deliberately walked into a pitch hoping it would end my career. Turns out I didn’t need to be that dramatic. My parents were very supportive of my decision to hang up the cleats and spend the rest of my summer watching soap operas and making macrame plant holders. Watching their daughter suffer through a sporting activity was worse than watching her intentionally get hit with a softball.
Pretending to Like The Princess Bride
Did I not like The Princess Bride? I don’t know. I only watched it once and that’s because I was bullied into it and all I remember thinking was, I wish I was watching the Real Housewives of Orange County or at least some deranged pregnant lady birth a child on a grassy knoll. Friends, this is an honest-to-god fireable offense in my line of work. My co-workers would forgive that jerk who stole people’s lunches right out of the office refrigerator before they’d forgive me.
But the heart wants what the heart wants.
My questionable taste goes far beyond viewing habits. I also have terrible taste in music too.
One day when I used to work in an office, I was listening to a random Spotify playlist and this amazing song came on. I checked who the artist was and was pleasantly delighted!
“Hey!” I shouted, forgetting I had headphones on. “I like Selena Gomez!”
“Stop talking,” my co-worker said. “Stop it right now.”
Gentle co-worker, I’m 184 years-old. I DON’T CARE! This Selena girl is going places!
Just this weekend I was I the car with Bart, my son, and his best friend and we were taking turns playing DJ. The best friend picked a Nirvana song, my son picked a song about some guy stapling his testicles to his butt cheeks (classic), Bart picked a Van Halen song, and I was completely ready to blow everyone’s minds with the total boy band banger that is MMMBop. Would you believe I was almost thrown out of the car? These idiots were not worth my laboriously curated Carly Rae Jepson-inspired playlist, but guess what— you are!
An Ode to Middle-Age
Dance like your Apple Watch thinks you fell down and is about to call 911
Sing like you don’t have neighbors
Live like a liberated middle-aged lady mom who is probably listening to the Jonas Brothers right now.
Seriously, being old is amazing. You should try it.
I dare you not to dance. (Yes, of course this is on the playlist.)
XO,
Shelly
Join Me for a Virtual Talk About Dungeons & Dragons!
Yes, Dungeons & Dragons! Did you know in my daytime life I’m the Senior (I prefer “middle-aged”) Brand Manager for D&D? (The whole Princess Bride thing makes sense now, right?) I didn’t grow up playing D&D which honestly is a shame as I’ve since become a huge fan and love talking about the ways this iconic roleplaying game improves mental health, social-emotional learning, and human connection. It should be required for all kids! (I’m working on that, actually.)
Join me for the 6th annual CosmicCon: Here Be Dragons event hosted by the Leon County Public Library. If you register using the Zoom link below, you’ll get a nice little reminder for the event.
Tales from the Tabletop: Shelly Mazzanoble and the Power of Dungeons & Dragons
When: August 24, 2024
Time: 12:30 to 1:30 p.m Eastern
Audience: All ages
Location: In person and virtual via Zoom
Join author and podcast co-host Shelly Mazzanoble as we discuss her book Welcome to Dragon Talk: Inspiring Conversations About Dungeons & Dragons and the People Who Love to Play It. Mazzanoble will share her expertise and talk shop on tabletop roleplaying games and their potential for transformative experiences. Gather around the table to hear about her more than 20-year career and discuss Dungeons & Dragons’ social-emotional benefits and philosophy on game design as a positive tool in education and parenting.
And in case you forgot, my new book comes out November 12! Friends, I’m OBSESSED with this book. I love it so much and I don’t care if we’re not supposed to say that about the things we make. I also love my kid so much and I made him too. It was a LABOR (get it?) of love and I hope new parents aren’t too tired to read it.
Pre-order the heck out of it!
Thank youuuuuuu!
As someone who considers himself indoorsy, I hear ya with the Mediocre Outdoors. Your expression in the rafting pic is hilarious. No wonder that photographer was so excited; she had tons of those kinds of shots.
There were EIGHT people wearing convertible pants at your wedding? Are you friendly with a local cult or something?
Also, this should go without saying but apparently it doesn’t. NEVER opt for the doorless helicopter! Live out your M*A*S*H fantasy some other way, like building a still in your garage or renaming your son Radar.
Truly delightful Shelly. Laughing in the darkness of my kitchen this morning.