[Stage lights up. Comedian walks out, grabs mic, squints at audience.]
Alright, alright—settle down. I know, I know… you’re all thinking, “Why did I pay $18 for a drink to hear someone complain about adulting?” And honestly? Fair. I’d be mad too. But stick with me. I’m cheaper than therapy and funnier than your last Zoom call.
So, I tried adulting this week. Bought a plant. Not a dog. Not a kid. A plant. Because I heard plants are “low maintenance.” That’s a LIE. My fern has more drama than my ex. One day I forgot to water it? It dropped a leaf like it was sending me a passive-aggressive Post-it: “Thanks for nothing, Karen.” I apologized to it. Out loud. My roommate walked in and said, “Are you… negotiating with foliage?” YES. And I won.
Then there’s laundry. Why is laundry the emotional support chore of adulthood? You ever pull your favorite shirt out of the dryer and it’s SHRUNK? Like, betrayal-level shrinkage. I’m standing there holding this tiny tee that now says “Property of 2012 Me,” and I’m like, “Was I happier then? Did I eat more pizza? Probably.”
And don’t get me started on grocery shopping. I go in for milk and bread. Come out with artisanal pickles, a wok I don’t know how to use, and a candle that smells like “Nordic Midnight.” What is Nordic Midnight? Is it pine trees and regret? Because that’s what my life smells like.
Online dating? Oh man. I swiped right on a guy whose bio said, “Looking for my partner in crime.” Ma’am, I don’t even jaywalk. The last “crime” I committed was eating my roommate’s yogurt and pretending the lid was already broken. I wrote “innocent until proven lactose intolerant” in my bio. Nobody swiped back.
And why do we still say “Let’s circle back” in emails? Circle back to what? The moon? The disappointment? Just say what you mean. “I’ll ignore this for three business days and then panic.” Be honest. We’re all pretending we know what we’re doing. The CEO? Pretending. The barista who spelled your name “Björk”? Pretending. My plant? Definitely pretending it doesn’t need sunlight.
I tried cooking last week. Made pasta. Simple, right? Boil water, throw noodles in, add sauce. NO. I turned my kitchen into a crime scene. Smoke alarm screaming like it’s seen a ghost. Sauce on the ceiling. I opened all the windows, waved a towel like I was trying to flag down a rescue helicopter. My neighbor yelled, “You okay in there?” I yelled back, “Emotionally? No. But the carbonara’s almost ready!”
And sleep. Who invented sleep? Because I think they’ve never tried it. I get in bed at 11, brain goes: “Hey! Remember that awkward thing you did in 2014? Let’s replay it. In HD. With commentary.” 3 a.m. me is my own worst podcast host.
But you know what? We’re all just out here, pretending we’ve got it together, watering our sad plants, shrinking our favorite clothes, burning our dinners, and swiping left on people who like hiking (who are these mythical hiking people?).
Life’s ridiculous. And that’s okay. Because if we didn’t laugh at it, we’d cry into our Nordic Midnight candles.
Thank you, you’ve been a delight. Tip your waitstaff, water your plants, and for the love of God—check the expiration date on that yogurt.
[Exits to applause, trips slightly on cord. Doesn’t break stride.]
“And THAT’S why I don’t do yoga.”
[Blackout.]
