I Don't Care
As much as I would like to think I to do things in a singular way—forging my path through life with originality, embodying a new type of maturity—I am sorry to report that I am a walking cliché, with my glasses on the tip of my nose, my standing appointment to get my roots done, and the fact that I now spend my whole life suspended in one long eye roll, which is a thing that happens to middle aged women as their hormones start dancing the fox trot.
They’ve seen it all, they can’t be bothered, and, really, they just don’t care.
Thank god I am not dating anymore, for I’d be just like Seema in And Just Like That*. I’d listen to what my date has to say, and after five—what am I saying?—three minutes, I’d finish their sentence and tell them that I have an important appointment with my bed.
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I don’t care.
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The other day, I went to a dinner with my husband in Mallorca and sat next to a very lovely British gentleman (Okay, don’t get excited. Jude Law he wasn’t.
