I don’t care (I love it)

Prompt: “I don’t care about…”

The easy answer is “I don’t care about politics.” But that’s not as true as I want it to be. I simply don’t care for the way they are done in this country, and I am powerless to change that, so I avoid the whole thing. So saying I don’t care about politics is like saying I don’t care about the collection of dog turds left on the corner of our front lawn by a neighbor’s dog: yes, it bothers me, but no, I can’t do anything to make my neighbor’s dog poop in her own yard instead, so I simply walk around the evidence. Abstinence, avoidance, and cynicism are different from apathy. I care about politics.

I could try to tell you I don’t care about Miley Cyrus, but when I think about the teenage girls who look up to her, again I must confess that I care. The way I care about factories churning out smog in L.A. Just because I don’t have to breathe it doesn’t mean it’s not killing people, slowly and cancerously.

OK, another easy answer: I don’t care about sports. But when there is a big game and tons of traffic and I am trying to get into the city for a concert, I am suddenly forced to care about sports. When I am trying to throw darts with my friends and I can’t hear them talk over the noise of the TV and screaming patrons, I am forced to care about sports. When I schedule youth events at my coffeehouse and kids can’t make it because they have a game, I am forced to care about sports.

When my fellow Bostonians would hoist me into the Charles River for implying that my world will go on if the Sox lose games 6 and 7, I am forced to care about sports.

Turns out there are very few things in this world that I don’t care about, which is probably why I’m such a high strung individual. There’s a basic interconnectivity to all things that makes it almost impossible not to care. I can’t not care about Vera Bradley’s grandma-style totes without also not caring about dumb fashion trends as blanket subject. I can’t not care about pickles without also not caring about the pregnant women who crave them. And those preggers ladies deserve their pickles. I can’t just not care.

All right. For the sake of the randomly generated writing prompt, I will try to think of just one thing that I truly, dispassionately, do not give one single hoot about. OK, here it is. Waitresses everywhere, take note:

I don’t care which kind of bread you put my sandwich on. Just make it the way it’s listed on the menu.

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