You ever notice how being an adult is basically a long string of decisions you were never trained for? When you're a kid, your biggest choice is grape or orange. As an adult, you find yourself standing in front of a dishwasher, holding a mysterious utensil, and thinking: do I scrub this like a weapon or is the rinse cycle going to take care of my dignity? There should be a diploma for that. "Congrats, you completed 'Appliance Judgment 101.'"
And technology was supposed to make that easier, remember? We bought smart speakers to feel like the future. Now I live with a tiny passive-aggressive roommate who listens to everything and pretends not to. I ask it to play jazz and it plays a lecture about sleep cycles. I say, "Turn the lights down." It asks, "Are you sure?" Who is running this household — me or the light bulb's therapist?
The other day I asked it to set a reminder to call my mom. It responded, "I've scheduled self-reflection for 6 p.m." I didn't know whether to be grateful or to feel judged. At least when the toaster judges you, it's honest. This thing is trying to nudge me into becoming a better person. I miss the bluntness of appliances. The blender never told you you could be more.
We externalize everything now. We outsource our taste, our fitness, our love lives. Dating apps are like shopping for human-shaped IKEA furniture. Everyone's professional at being casual. Profiles are all the same: "I love traveling, dogs, and experiencing things." You don't love experiencing things, Susan. You love deciding between two brunch spots and then complaining. There's no risk in a bio. It's curated life, not living.
And fitness culture has gone fullbrand. When did sweat become a lifestyle? Gyms now have class names that sound like secret societies. You walk in and it's "Forge," "Rise," "ZenBurn." I went to one called "Eclipse." I thought I accidentally walked into solar mythology. The instructor says, "Find your center." I've already found my center — it's buried under a Netflix subscription and three missed calls.
Therapy has become part of the subscription economy too. People check in with their therapists like they're checking the weather. "How's your week?" "Mostly cloudy with a chance of setbacks." We treat therapists like life mechanics: "Can you reset my motivation? Maybe do an update?" No, you can't install focus 2.0 without sacrifice; there is no Wi-Fi password for happiness.
Which brings me back to my smart speaker. If you can make a device that catalogs your music, transcribes your arguments, and tells you jokes at 3 a.m., why can't it make decisions for you? I tried that. I said, "Pick dinner." It booked a reservation at a restaurant called 'Responsibility.' I went, and the waiter asked if I wanted a side of life choices. I paid, and now my smart speaker sends me quotes from my own diary. That’s when I realized: the devices aren't the problem. The problem is we've made them our conscience. And my conscience is now available in a 30-day trial.
So here's my plan: I'm going to keep the device but change the wake word to "Mom." Suddenly it won't just play music — it'll guilt me into being on time, doing laundry, and calling back. If we’re outsourcing adulthood, might as well outsource the nagging too. At least then, when I'm judged for my life choices, it'll come with love and a follow-up reminder.
