Fuckits, n.:
the rush of yielding to temptation, esp. to behave in a compulsive manner; the
flood of relief that occurs after permitting oneself to indulge (see: Case of
the Fuckits).
Several
years ago, a recovering bulimic taught me this word. She was describing the
cycle of her disorder: the days of starvation and white-knuckled control; the
inevitable momentary weakness; the first few bites of cookie or pie,
eaten in the certainty that moderation would be possible this time; and then
finally, inevitably, the tipping point when her willpower gave way and a binge
began (“OH FUCK IT!").
Recovery,
she told me, was about never giving in to the Fuckits.
As it
so happens, the Fuckits are mutual friends of ours. Like those
"networkers" who talk to you for five minutes at a cocktail party and
then immediately friend you on Facebook, they've managed to connect at one time
or another not only with me and her, but pretty much everyone I know.
They have a knack for appearing at the worst times in my life:
after a stressful day at work, as I open a bag of candy corn; when I'm already
2 white wines in, contemplating a third; or when I'm staring at Burberry skirts
on eBay,
biting my cuticles.
They
can be lots of fun, but they can also be overbearing, controlling, profligate
assholes. No matter how often you spend time with them or what you do when
they're there, you always feel a little dirtier in the morning.
In
recent years, some of my friends have stopped speaking to the Fuckits. Their
lives are better for it. These are the addicts, the Fuckits' favored few. At
one time or another, they have each faced a stark choice: stay away from these
guys, or die prematurely.
My
relationship with the Fuckits is less dire. I am what you would call one of
their subclinical friends. They come around fairly often, but not so much that
they're ruining my life. My impression is that they're at about the same
friendship level with the majority of women I know.
Wouldn't
it make sense for EVERYONE to defriend the Fuckits? Even if they haven't ruined
our lives, why do we want to keep such an unpredictable, irritating, unbalanced
company? Is there any reason we're still listening to their crazy schemes after
all these years?
For me,
yes, there is a reason. They might be full of crap most of the time, but the
Fuckits are kind of my heroes.
When
someone I know -- or something I read in a magazine -- tells me to be more
patient, submissive, practical, or pleasing, the Fuckits know just the right
response. When tonight was supposed to be the night of a thousand laundry
loads, but I'm just too interested in writing this article, they smile and tap
me on the shoulder. If I hear again that no one could possibly procrastinate as
much as me and succeed, they make like a Roman emperor in the arena and do a
haughty thumbs-down.
The
instincts that tell me to go ahead and eat the whole sundae, to drink until I'm
drunk, to stay up all night and ruin tomorrow reading random articles on
Wikipedia -- they are instincts of surrender, of desire, of just-because-I-want-to.
They are hungry, ugly, primal. They would rather expose themselves to
embarrassment and criticism than miss out on something delicious.
These
instincts, these desires for something more, are amoral. They run strong and
quick, right past eddies of worry, in search of satisfaction. Like water, they
will flow forward by any means we allow: wide, shallow floodplains of
cheesecake; deeper, more frightening rapids of change.
I'm
scared of the rapids. It's convenient to let my life clog them with inertia and
self-loathing, or to build dams in advance by internalizing society's opinions
about who I should be.
How
often my desires have run toward a big dream, a needed breakup, a lavish and
impractical adventure that sounds worthwhile only to me, only to hit an inner
Hoover and divert for something shallower. And how wonderful it's been the few
times the Fuckits happened onto the scene, drunk as usual, dressed for some
reason like Venetian gondoliers, singing in jaunty straw hats as they hand me
sticks of dynamite: fuck it, fuuuuuck that shit, dooo it anyway, fuuuuuck that
shit.
The
Fuckits are irritating. They are insane. The stakes of hanging out with them
are high, and I need to start inviting them to better parties.
Article by Anna Laimer, xoJane
Happy Weekend Friends
xxx
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