This Is Us
In My Fifties, I’m Finally Learning to Say ‘F*ck You’
How midlife loosened my tongue
When I flipped off the speeding truck, I knew things had changed. Sending a hearty “fuck you” to a stranger was a thing I had almost never considered before, but in the moment, it seemed oddly, perfectly natural. I briefly reconsidered the wisdom of this change when he doubled back. And then I did it again.
Walking on my quiet country road in upstate New York, as I do every day, a jumped-up pickup with a tiny red-hat boy at the wheel came roaring down the road at an unreasonable speed. Frightening, aggressive speed. When he rounded the corner and saw me on the side of the road, he floored it. It scared me, but it also enraged me beyond caring for the fear. Just as he passed, the massive and menacing truck feet from my body, I shot my middle finger high up in the air, thrusting it in his direction with my best angry face and what felt like power. I was shaking, but it felt fabulous, like triumph. Reclaiming my space.
I heard his loud engine slow and stop at the far end of the road. Then it started up again, hurtling back in my direction. He was rounding on me, in his dirty, muscled gray truck. He looked to be younger than any of my kids and smaller than all of us. But he was armored in his noisy vehicle…
