So I’m trying to be a better person, which in 2025 just means I bought a water bottle the size of a toddler. That’s the whole self-improvement plan. It’s not therapy, it’s not reading books. It’s, “If I drink 3 of these, I’m emotionally stable.”
I walk around with this thing like I’m on a hike… in my own apartment. I can’t even sit on the couch without planning a route. I’m like, “Okay, I’ll leave the kitchen at 0900, hit the couch by 0903, water check at 0915, bathroom at 0920, we move as a team, people.”
And every bottle has those inspirational markings on the side now: “9 AM: You’ve got this!” “11 AM: Keep going!” “1 PM: Almost there!” By 3 PM I’m like, “I have done nothing today… except pee 19 times. This bottle is my only coworker. And it’s passive-aggressive.”
I miss when water was just… around. You were thirsty, you drank from a sink like a raccoon. Now if I drink from a faucet people look at me like I just licked a subway pole. “Are you okay? Do you need help? Blink twice if you need a reusable straw.”
I’m also trying to be “mindful.” That’s the new thing. Every app wants you to breathe. I open my phone: notifications, emails, one app’s like, “Have you taken 10 deep breaths today?” I’m like, “No, I’ve been holding my breath since 2016.”
So I downloaded a meditation app. It has this calm voice like, “Notice your thoughts… and let them go.” But my thoughts are like, “Did you pay your taxes? Did you hit reply all? Is your boss mad?” And the app’s like, “Let them float away like clouds.” I’m like, “No, these are thunderstorms. These thoughts have property damage.”
And the app gives me streaks. “You’ve meditated for 3 days in a row!” No I haven’t, I just opened the app and panicked. That shouldn’t count. That’s like saying, “You’ve gone to the gym 5 days in a row!” No, I drove past it in traffic and remembered I’m weak.
Speaking of gyms, why is every gym either a nightclub or a warehouse? It’s either purple lights, DJ in the corner, everyone looks like an action figure… or it’s some cross-training dungeon where tires hang from the ceiling and someone’s flipping a tractor in the background.
I just want a normal place where I can lift something light, breathe loudly, and not be judged by a 19-year-old trainer named Brayden whose entire job is to yell “Let’s go!” while never sweating. He’s walking around in a tank top like a motivational seagull. “Let’s go! One more! You got this!” Sir, you are holding a clipboard. You have not “got” anything.
Even grocery shopping is intense now. There’s a self-checkout, a regular checkout, a fifteen-items-or-less lane, a “drive up” lane, and then the lane for people who remembered their reusable bags and their morals. I always end up in the wrong one. I’ll stand in self-checkout with 40 items, trying to scan broccoli like it’s a DVD.
The machine is never chill. It’s always yelling, “Unknown item in bagging area!” It’s broccoli. It’s the most known item in the bagging area. Meanwhile, the human cashier is just watching, like, “You chose this, champ. You wanted to live in the future.”
Anyway, I gotta go drink three more gallons of water, breathe on purpose, pretend driving past the gym is exercise, and argue with a robot about produce. I think I’m nailing adulthood.
