Esther McCarthy: Signing up to the We Do Not Care Club

Esther McCarthy: appreciator of a well-positioned fruit bowl. Picture: Emily Quinn

I would not have thought I’d have much in common with a black lady from Florida, but one of the many wonders of the internet is you can find communion in the most unlikely of places.

Melani Sanders is a 45-year-old wife and mother and the founding member of the ‘We Do Not Care’ Club (we know this because she has it written on a bit of paper and paper-clipped onto her t-shirt).

She posts videos aimed at women of a certain age who are sick to the back teeth of... well, everything. I remember seeing the first video she posted back in May. I was like, ‘Yes! This gal gets it’.

In a few short months, Melani’s amassed 1.6m followers on Instagram, 1.3m on TikTok and 475,000 on Facebook, along with sponsorship deals, merch, and a global fan club.

Turns out us mad bitches with startling mood swings and malfunctioning body thermostats just can’t get enough of her.

Melani sits there in her car, or kitchen, or sideways on her bed, with a travel pillow around her neck, multiple pairs of glasses perched on her person, ready to call to order another meeting of the WDNCC. 

She sometimes has a sleep mask slung around her neck, and often wears a robe and a satin sleep turban. (If you don’t like it, she does not care.)

She then uncaps her yellow highlighter, with a hint of menace, it has to be said, and proceeds to name out all the things we do not care about, as shared by her followers in the comments.

All her videos start with her explaining the very simple premise. “I started the club for all the women going through perimenopause and menopause. We are putting the world on notice that we simply do not care much anymore.” 

She calls out the first item, declares that we do not care, then scratches it off her list. She has this earnest look about her, like she is on serious business.

And she is. One of the things on her list in a video I watched recently is: “We do not care if the tag says hand wash. It’s getting washed how it’s getting washed. It’s in the Lord’s hands now.”

Another one: “We do not care if something is ‘dishwasher safe’. It is now.” One more for the laugh: “We do not care if you want us to go somewhere last minute. Once the bra comes off, forget about it.”

Her slow, deadpan delivery is just brilliant. And to be honest, that club makes me feel a little better. Because, although I’m at the batshit-crazy (medical term) stage of my hormonal journey, I haven’t quite mastered the fully not caring part yet. 

The other day, I started crying over the position of a fruit bowl on the table, and made the cat run into the sliding glass door in confusion. Then I had to add ‘worry about cat concussion’ to my checklist.

I like knowing the WDNCC is there for consolation. There was one recently about not caring if a partner has had a long day.

“So did we,” drawls Melani. “Our day included brain fog, night sweats, insomnia, frozen shoulder, and rage.”

One thing that’s stoking my rage at the moment is the pair of underpants strewn on the stairs. (Sidenote: Why is it called a pair?) 

I’m 67% sure it’s clean and simply fell out of the laundry basket on the way up the stairs. Two things I’m 100% sure about, though.

• 1. It’s not mine. 
• 2. I am not, I repeat, NOT going to sniff it to confirm said cleanliness.

It’s a gamble though. It’s been there a while now, no one else seems to notice it. Sometimes, on my dark days, I wonder… is it an illusion? Am I the only one who sees it — a figment of my fragile, foggy brain? Is it a metaphorical manifestation representing the mess in my mind?

But then I remember that empty shopping bag on the kitchen floor. I decided I’d use it as a barometer of how much notice my fellow house inhabitants take of random things left around the house.

And wasn’t I was stepping over that bag every time I went to the fridge? It would have gone on until infinity so on day four, I folded it up with a martyred sigh, put it back in the boot of the car, and went and had a cry by the fruit bowl for myself.

The ridiculous thing is, I’m a messy person anyway, I love a bit of creative shite thrown around the place. My office could be used for carbon dating. 

The kids’ rooms are way tidier than mine. It’s just things left in communal areas start my left eye twitching. But I’m going to work on it.

The wonderful thing about Sanders’ club is that it’s fast becoming a movement. She’s giving voice to all the women out there who can identify with these changes and challenges and who raise their hands and their voices up and say, OMG, me too! 

There’s a real power — and comfort — in that. Sanders posted recently about the effect her club is having. “You are not crazy. You are not alone,” she writes.

“You are surrounded by a tribe that sees you, loves you, and refuses to whisper about what we were taught to hide. We’re just getting started.”

On an unrelated matter, does anyone know the best way to glue a fruit bowl back together and the name of a good feline vet?