Giving a fig about less

This morning I woke up like all other mornings, next to my darling daughter, Jian as we co-sleep. No my darling hubby doesn’t sleep next to us. He sleeps on the couch. Yes I am afraid he would squash our little perfect pumpkin with one of his oversized limbs. So I woke up to a cooing baby, asking for milk. I fed her, and soon she was wide awake.

My darling daughter is weird in a cute newborn way, in the sense that when she wakes to a new day, this is the first thing she does. She looks toward the window and stares straight into the streak of light that’s bravely come through from behind our bedroom curtains. Then with eyes lit up she lets out a happy baby noise as if to say ‘YAY! It’s a new day!’ She does this every morning unfailingly and I laugh at this weird phenomenon every morning unfailingly. You could say she is a morning person. Maybe she has kicked the morning person out of me. Well she has, as I can comfortably say that sleep has a different meaning these days. Nothing is as it used to be. I mean for gods sake, I don’t even sleep next to my beloved husband anymore, afraid she’d wake him up and eff up his day for work. In fact we missed each others’ embracement so much that when we finally had a window of opportunity the other evening, we went to the bed to hug each other, and guess what happened? Wait for it. Wait for it. You guessed it right. We fell asleep. But not for long of course.

After I was done feeding her and after she was done with her glorious morning routine of dancing and bobbing her little sprout of a body on our oversized bed on which she looks like an overly-sized dot—> [ • ], she went back into sleep. Although I could have done with more sleep, I got up, had my glass of morning water, put the kettle on, poured some Vietnamese coffee into the filter, put my socks on, laid the yoga mat out on the floor and went quietly into a stretching mode. Quickly poured the hot water into the coffee filter and while waiting for the brew I went to grab a book from my small pile of books in our barbie sized apartment living-room. Of all books I grabbed The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck by Mark Manson which I’d purchased back when I was doing my legal internship in The Hague sometime February of last year.

The coffee was ready, so I had a quick sparrow-like sip of my cup of joe, grabbed my book and jumped on the stationary bike while towering over my handsome husband who was sleeping on our sofa just an inch away. The bike started making its own white noise which I presumed might not be much of a nuisance for my sleeping beauty. After a few minutes of spinning, darling daughter started making some noises, so I had to abandon my pursuit and run to her. When I arrived, I saw her putting her cute little fingers into her mouth while her eyes were still closed. She is hungry again. I lifted my super-stretchy top up and over my head like a soccer star doing a ceremony, and flopped my udder out ready for another feeding. Lying down next to her, with one hand controlling my engorged udder so it can fit in her teeny mouth and so not to block her nostrils, with the other arm stretching out from under me I held out the book I was reading moments before.

The key to a good life is not giving a fuck about more; it’s giving a fuck about less, giving a fuck about only what is true and immediate and important.

The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, by Mark Manson, p.5

Because for me, all I want for Christmas, the new year 2020 and the next decade nothing more, nothing less other than to stay true to myself! I want to not give a fuck about more but LESS! Ultimately giving a fuck about what is true, immediate and important means living a fully-fledged life as Sadhguru says, living your bliss as Joseph Campbell says. It means never ever giving up, believing in ourselves, and going all the way, as poet Bukowski would do.

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