For the millionth time, I’m vowing to curtail my cussing. Not go cold turkey (I’m not stupid!), but rather an easing off on the R-rated material. I don’t always judge my audience correctly, and a little self-censorship would go a long way toward a classier me.
It’s hard though, especially in a sh&* year like this one. With each new Trump debacle, COVID crisis, election trauma or family heartbreak, I want to scream like an inebriated salty-dog sailor. That’s a lot of screaming. October alone has forced me to become truly creative in my word choice, often resulting in brand new swears like “t^$#-waddler.” You’re welcome.
It’s also difficult because I no longer have young children to act as natural barriers to my filthy mouth. My oldest accidentally dropped an F-bomb during a recent phone conversation and all I did was laugh. Laugh!
Then there’s the whole scientific argument for cursing. Research (i.e., Myth Busters) has proven that even muttering obscenities under your breath can increase pain tolerance. Apparently, an adamant “darn” doesn’t come close to the power of a perfectly lobbed “c%#*s@!*&er!”
And let’s be honest, when used appropriately and with solid comedic timing, foul language is hilarious. That’s why I love my family and co-workers. They get it. They know that profanity is simply a punch line, a vent, or a colorful way to say, “Life sucks right now.”
So, maybe it’s not possible to totally expurgate my vocabulary, but that doesn’t mean I can’t try. When you come close to using an unmentionable word in front of high school students, it’s time to reevaluate. Here’s to a classier me, bi$#@es! Peace out.