Fresh Out of F*cks: The Joy of Being Too Exhausted to Care

Sorry folks, no perky, funny blog post today because I’m tired. Well, there’s tired… and then there’s whatever I’ve been feeling this month.

It’s the kind of tired a nap can’t touch. The kind that mocks your iced coffee and shrugs off the comfort of an entire sleeve of Oreos. It’s not just my body begging for a three-day lie-down—it’s my brain too. It is fed up, filing a formal complaint and refusing to take any more calls.

I am exhausted - mentally, emotionally, and spiritually scrambled.

This morning I read the same email three times and still can’t tell you what it says. Yesterday I was walking into rooms and immediately forgetting why I was there—which is a normal part of being a post-menopausal woman, but lately, it's happening a lot. Some days I feel like I’m underwater, moving in slow motion. On other days, I’m racing around, multitasking myself into a meltdown, worrying about everything, and beating myself up for not returning calls or responding to texts, and not crossing off enough tasks on my To Do List.

Why? Because July has been a crazy-ass shit show. Some of it was scheduled chaos. The rest? Random crap life has thrown at me - kind of like annoying uninvited guests that show up at the exact wrong time. If I’m being honest, this month has felt like too much and I’m THIS CLOSE to begging the Universe to space this f*ckery out just a little.

What helps? Saying “no” more often than feels polite. Turning off the news. Sitting on the couch and staring at absolutely nothing for five whole minutes. Laughing at how ridiculous this is. And remembering this is what being human looks like in a world that never stops asking for more.

Sometimes, our brains are running on 2% battery and we keep clicking “ignore” on the low-power warning. I’ll recharge eventually. But for now? That 2% is going to have to be enough.

There is a silver lining to being this mentally exhausted: you stop caring about the nonsense. My weird flappy upper arms? Irrelevant. Finding the perfect arrangement of throw pillows on the couch? Who cares. Rogue chin hairs and my un-stylish high ponytail? What-f*cking-ever.

Once my brain reboots, I’m sure I’ll return to obsessing over all that pointless stuff. But for now? I’m officially out of shits to give.