Not caring is the biggest perk of middle age — or so it would seem from all the podcasts, articles and social media musings on mid-life I’ve been mainlining lately.

This does not mean the middle-aged no longer care about the grand picture: geopolitics, for example, or the health of the planet. Rather, by clearing away the little things — vanity, others’ judgments, petty office politicking — you can create more space for the big things.

Nikki Sixx, the bassist of Mötley Crüe, said the heavy metal band was in the “we-don’t-give-a-fuck phase of our career”. On Instagram, I am increasingly confronted with women over 45, wearing bright colours, heavy glasses and dancing, giving a stylish two-finger rejection of their past body shame and worries about conforming to fashion rules.

This spurs envy and frustration in me. When will I reach this nirvana, the splendid moment when I no longer give a damn about others’ opinions and do whatever I like, unfettered by judgment? Friends and colleagues say it arrived for them between 40 and 55, an age bracket that I comfortably sit in.

It sounds so appealing. Eileen Burbidge, director of Fertifa, a London-based fem tech company, said she no longer worries about proving her worth, being disliked or trying to fit everything in. “I can just focus on getting things done . . . I feel less encumbered and more empowered to move, act and go with my instincts, not to second-guess myself. To take pride and comfort in my views and actions is a massive weight off my shoulders and means I do things that I want to do . . . not just what I think others want or expect.”

Why this enlightened state arrives in middle age is a mystery. Perhaps it’s due to being part of the “sandwich generation” — a period when you’re simultaneously juggling work, elderly relatives and kids — and time is in short supply. Are you really going to waste precious minutes on wasted worries when you could just focus on the big things: people you love or work that is meaningful? That is a rational reaction to recognising mortality — an upside to a midlife crisis. Death has few virtues except, perhaps, for clarifying the important things in life.

Others identify this devil-may-care attitude as a byproduct of fluctuating hormones. Aline Brosh McKenna, one of the creators of The CW TV series Crazy Ex-Girlfriend, told a reporter in 2020: “I often say, ‘Lord, give me the moxie of a post-menopausal women [sic] who gives absolutely no fucks.’” Author Kathy Lette wrote that after the menopause, “women are liberated from the male gaze . . . a drop in oestrogen . . . means that for the first time ever, we no longer care what other people think about us.”

One male friend mused that his lower sex drive was helping him shed peripheral worries. Paraphrasing one of the great philosophers, he reflected on the freedom in no longer having his libido chained to a lunatic.

Or perhaps this feeling arrives at the uplift of the happiness curve, which economists have postulated emerges after your forties, when the background noise of ambition, fretting about your status, ebbs away, replaced by satisfaction, wisdom and self-knowledge.

One male friend mused that his lower sex drive was helping him shed peripheral worries

I suspect some of this I couldn’t-care-less attitude is pure posturing — the bookend to swaggering teenage cool, a front just like any other. The recent “meno-movement”, with female celebrities and businesswomen speaking up about the once-taboo menopause, has brought with it a whole new crop of skin creams and beauty products to flog and consume, indicating that while women might feel more comfortable in their own skin, they want that skin to look as plump as scientifically possible. 

A friend cites the actress Miriam Margolyes as an example of someone wheeled out to demonstrate the power of ageing and ditching self-consciousness. But the truth is the years have not transformed Margolyes. In an interview earlier this year, the actress said: “What can I do? I have to say what I believe to be the truth. Now I’m 82, I don’t give a flying fuck. If I want to say something, I’m going to say it.” When asked if she would have given one in the past, she replied: “I’ve always been like this.” It could be that we find this attitude endearing in an old woman and disconcerting in a younger person, my friend speculates. 

I think there might be something in this. Try as I might, I can’t stop sweating the smaller stuff — whether my work is good enough, can I pull off a figure-hugging dress — despite yearning for a middle-aged breakthrough. It’s baked into my very bones. Once after a bereavement, I went into a particularly tricky meeting, certain that death put everything into perspective. It turned out, I could still worry about the small things, like how I came across, alongside the very big.  

But the more I asked around, the more I found other mid-lifers worrying about the little things in life. I asked a male King’s Counsel, who always appears relatively robust, whether he cares about the small stuff. “Of course,” came the reply. “Lots of barristers stay pushy, chippy, pettily shit-giving forever as far as I can see.”

If anything, there is more to lose as your reputation grows. A partner at a City law firm said underneath it all, senior and junior colleagues were all “neurotic overachievers” who wanted to be appreciated, to receive a “thank you, you’ve done a good job”. I felt silly for thinking the money was its own form of validation.

Is no longer seeking approval entirely desirable though? Brené Brown, the author also known for her 2010 TED talk on the power of vulnerability, wrote in 2019 that whenever she sees a comment along the lines of “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks!” she can “see the pain dripping off their 12-year-old self . . . we are neurobiologically hard-wired for connections.” It is a delicate balance, she says: “When we stop caring what anyone thinks, we diminish our opportunities for connection.” On the other hand, caring too much “we lose our capacity for authenticity and courage”.

This is complex. Humans are messy and contradictory. My friend who finds himself no longer driven by libido frets about getting fat. One acquaintance says that she worries about social issues such as gender equality — alongside her appearance and menopausal body. The lawyer, hoping for a thank you, has accepted that if someone does not like him he will not “feel crushed or demeaned by it” and less tolerant of irritating clients and colleagues.

So maybe this day when I no longer give a damn will never come? But acceptance may offer some peace of mind.

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