I Turned 50 And Became a Pirate
The f-word shot from my mouth like a flaming cannonball
Before turning 50 I only dropped the f-bomb during two very specific events. It popped out every time a team pulled their goalie in a hockey game because it never fucking worked. At least it never fucking worked while I watched.
The other time it flew from my lips was when I washed windows. I lived in an older home still sporting its original windows fitted with cantankerous screens that had to be removed before cleaning the glass. They often jammed and then released suddenly resulting in pinched fingers and flying f-bombs. Whenever I announced it was time to tackle the windows, my then-husband shuffled our kids out of earshot for a few hours. He knew my language would be colorful.
These select events were the only times that word entered my vocabulary. Sure I spouted a few more palatable cuss words now and then but fuck hadn’t worked its way into my everyday speech.
Until I turned 50.
I don’t know if flipping the page to a new decade prompted this change or if it’s tied to facing the truth in my marriage. The timing coincides with gaining the strength within myself to leave my ex. All the frustrations I swallowed for years erupted from a holding tank deep within me and spewing fuck seemed to…