inarticulate sparkle.

“Where do you want to get dinner tonight?” Manifested Man asks, hoping I’m not like every other woman who doesn’t want to make a decision. “I don’t care,” I answer, because I am very much just like all the other women… but am I really?

I don’t care where we have dinner, because I’m not a picky eater. I will find something on any menu that I will enjoy eating, in your company. I would eat the greasiest, cheesiest burger on this side of the Mississippi no matter what day it is. I would have a peanut butter and jelly Uncrustable in your kitchen at midnight, wearing just a big t-shirt, if it meant I got to eat next to you.

“Do you want to go to Mulligans to watch the game with my friends?” Absolutely I do. I want to meet your friends, and see you happy and having fun. “What do you want to drink?” He asks, assuming I’m going to request a “whiskey and whatever” type of drink. “I don’t care, I’ll have what you’re having.” Because I genuinely do not mind sipping a cold Coors Light on the picnic tables outside, watching a sport I don’t fully understand. I don’t care, because I want you to have fun. You having fun means I’m having fun. Your smile is my favorite part of the whole night, not whichever beer is sweating in the bucket,

‘I’m playing hockey tonight, do you want to come watch?” I absolutely do! No matter how bad some of your teammates are, I love watching you do your thing. Do I care if you want to stand in the parking lot after the game, drinking beer and bullshitting with the boys? Of course I don’t care. Not because I don’t care about you, but because I do. I will sit on your tailgate, sip on my water and drive you home because I don’t care if you want to drink your whole cooler of beers on a weekend night.

“I’m going out with the boys on Saturday to celebrate,” he texted. I asked if he wanted me to come along to be his designated driver, because I don’t care if he wants to get drunk with his boys. I care about this man so fucking much, but I trust him.

“No, I don’t want you to come with me as my DD. I want you to come with me as my girlfriend.” Do I care that he has never asked me to go somewhere as his girlfriend? I absolutely do not. I know how he feels about me, and the feelings I have for him do not revolve around a label. (Wait– isn’t this what I’ve been waiting for?!)

What I do care about is making his life easier. I care about not causing him stress, sadness, or disappointment. I care about supplementing his existence and hoping he realizes that I only have good intentions.

There is a difference between not caring and not having needs.

I care about respect. I care about honesty. I care about effort. I care about feeling safe, chosen, and considered.

I do not care if dinner is burgers, wings, or an Uncrustable at midnight.

I do not care if the night ends at a bar, a hockey rink, a tailgate, or your kitchen counter.

I do not care about the small stuff, because the big stuff is already taking up all the room in my heart.

My parents used to have this little book in the powder room when I was a kid. Classic toilet literature. It was called Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff. And It’s All Small Stuff. At the time, I mostly remember wondering why adults needed bathroom homework.

But now I think I get it.

The small stuff is where we waste so much love trying to prove a point. Where we turn dinner plans into personality tests and drink orders into compatibility issues. Where we confuse preference with principle.

I am trying to learn the difference, because I do care.

I care so much it’s embarrassing.

I just don’t care where we eat. (Also, I can’t really taste the different between Coors Light and Michelob Ultra anyway.)

Nothing says childhood quite like learning emotional regulation from a self-help book strategically placed near a toilet.