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 billboard. The sore butt. The lousy roadside eateries. The lousy roadside bathrooms, especially the ones that require a key.
Buy shoes that hurt. I don’t care how fabulously sexy and stylish they are. Really. I mean it.
Ride a roller coaster. Because I can’t scream and upchuck and hurl at the same time.
Ride a motorcycle. Ditto.
Sing in public.
Teach a teenager to drive. I’ve had enough near-death experiences, thank you.
Ice or roller skate. The flailing arms. The collisions. The humiliation.
Tell someone to stick it where the moon don’t shine. Uh … well, maybe once.