I Think I'm Over It

This is a really exciting day for me because I think I’m over it. Not even over anything in particular, I’m just in the general state of apathy. It’s kind of great.

But not the exasperated over it, like when you were twelve and you were arguing with your mom about wearing eyeliner and finally she threw up her tired hands and said, “I’m over it, just wear it,” yet I will take this paragraph/run-on sentence to acknowledge that our mothers were right and we did not need eyeliner.

Wow! Lacrosse is so interesting! I completely understand the way it is played!

Wow! Lacrosse is so interesting! I completely understand the way it is played!

Instead, this is the kind of over it where I’m like, “Well, alright,” but not in the giving-up sense, more like the I-have-better-things-to-worry-about sense.

This has been a slow but consistent breakthrough. I think it started when I wrote a short story about my break-up (don’t look at me!) and my professor called my character, whose name I obviously changed, a “rabid bear who need[ed] to be tranquilized.” Nice, Anna! Hearing him say that was weirdly refreshing and exhilarating, and I couldn’t decide if it made me want to be a rabid bear or perhaps a slightly less-zealous version. I’m fine with either at the moment.

Is this just a thing that happens when you get older? Like when you go back home after your first year of college and you’re not embarrassed about chilling with your parents (Side note: I really enjoy hanging out with my parents)? If it is, cool. If not, also cool, because that probably means I’m going through some type of paradoxical character change that I can annoy my children about while I drink wine and watch them do the dishes after dinner.

Disclaimer: Being “over it” does not mean that I don’t care. I care wholeheartedly. I’m not even going to specify the things I care about because there are too many pointless things on that list and it’s embarrassing. Being over it, for example, would be like if you (whoever you are) and I were at a dinner party, and during cocktail hour I said something that annoyed you, and you threw your white wine spritzer on me. I’d say, “Well, alrighty then,” and probably go dry off in the bathroom. It’s just white wine, so why get fired up about it? I’d be over it. But, if you had said something to slander Emma Watson, I’d probably say, “Screw, you,” and then throw my white wine spritzer on you. Do you see the difference?

The fact that I wore velvet booties to a lacrosse game? Over it. My diminishing bank account? Over it. The fact that yesterday I had Chipotle for lunch and then tacos for dinner? Over it. The fact that my sister’s dog chewed up a fourth pair of my sunglasses this weekend? Ehh not really over that one yet, but we’re getting there.