Crossing items off a bucket list is one of life’s pleasures, nearly as satisfying as doing them. As the items on my own personal list are accomplished, I derive a wicked glee adding to what I call my f^*k it list, activities I have either considered engaging in or have already done. To the former I say, fuggetaboutit. To the latter, nevermore.
Ski. Those clunky, heavy boots. The blinding whiteness of snow that makes it hard to orient my body in space. The prospect of my body hurtling through space.
Take a selfie. There is no good angle. None.
Paint a room. The prep work. The clean up. The storing of paint cans, brushes, rollers, trays, spattered dropcloths. The primal scream when I realize it’s not the right color.
Tell a hairdresser to be creative.
Drive cross-country. The tedium, relieved occasionally by a glimpse of beautiful scenery or an amusing...