Today, write about any topic you feel like — but you must reuse your opening line (at least) two more times in the course of your post.
And so what?
That’s the default question I pose to myself about certain topics. My mind is a runaway train and I ruminate as easily as I get up to go pee in the morning. I went to a counselor in college who taught me this game: keep worrying, but after each worrisome thought ask yourself, “And then what?” Of course, you then need to explain yourself. Eventually your explanations make no sense, and this is supposed to be a tactic to put your anxiety back down by your toes. You might worry about gaining weight, and by the time you’ve played this game for five minutes, it ends up that because you gained ten pounds you also lost your job, went bankrupt and are now a homeless crackhead.
Back in the days of my nearly debilitating anxiety, this phrase taught me that the world probably would not fall apart for my minor failings, trouble dealing with people and fear of the unknown; my anxiety, however, would continue to make life uncomfortable until I confronted it and used tools to banish it.
These days, the phrase has evolved into, “And so what?” So what if she becomes thinner than me? I don’t have a good answer for that. So what if I find out I can’t get pregnant? Another shoulder shrug. So what if I haven’t been updating my blog? Quite frankly, I doubt anyone except me has noticed.
It’s my anthem for 29-year-old me. I entertained the idea of flying back to the East Coast and having a major blowout for my 30th birthday next year, but I’ve learned my best friend won’t be there and I don’t really see the point of a party anymore. And so what? I’ll turn 30 with or without a party to commemorate the experience.
Saying “so what” to the world is a method of gentle defiance, a way to stick my chin up and do my best Alanis impression. (BTW, listening to Jagged Little Pill right now.) A way to glue my smashed ego back together, put things in perspective and realize that these things might not matter as much as I think they do. Yep, I’m a high-strung, neurotic ruminator.
And so what?