Title: “I’m the Control Group”
[Walk on stage, wave, pretend the mic is too low, adjust it way too high, finally just hold it like an ice-cream cone.]
Hey, everybody! Give it up for yourselves for being here on a weeknight. I’m here because my therapist said, “You need to get out of the house.” I said, “Great, I’ll go to a comedy show.” She said, “No, I meant socially.” Too late, I already bought the parking.
I just turned 36, which is the age when your body becomes a group project. None of the organs email each other; they just Slack-message behind your back. My knee started hurting, so I Googled it. WebMD said “Possible causes: 1) Marathon running, 2) Old soccer injury, 3) Death.” I’ve never run a marathon unless you count the distance between the couch and the door when the Grubhub guy rings the wrong apartment. And the only soccer I ever played was FIFA, and I was still offsides.
You know you’re an adult when you get excited about a new sponge. I bought a dual-sided sponge last week—one side “gentle,” one side “scrub.” I stood in the aisle like, “Ooooh, choices!” That’s nightlife now. I go home, pour a single glass of wine, and watch the sponge demonstration video. The comments are wild: “Karen, you’re using too much pressure!” Calm down, Brad, it’s not a hostage situation, it’s baked-on cheese.
Dating in your thirties is basically two people reporting prior damage like they’re rental cars. “There’s a small dent here from 2017, and the check-engine light comes on if you mention commitment.” I went on a date recently and the guy brought a laminated list of foods he “no longer tolerates.” I said, “I too am lactose intolerant, but I keep eating it because I believe in second chances.” He unmatched me while we were still sitting there. I saw the little typing bubble: “She’s still chewing, run.”
My mom keeps asking when I’m going to give her grandkids. I told her I already have something that wakes me up every two hours screaming—it’s called my credit-score alert. She said, “That’s not the same.” I said, “It is, Mom. It’s crying, it keeps me up, and it’ll follow me for 18 to 30 years.”
I tried to get healthier, so I joined one of those fitness cults—sorry, “boutique studios.” The instructor’s name was Kale—legally, I checked. He said, “We’re going to push past our limits!” I was like, “Buddy, my limit is stairs.” Then he dimmed the lights and started yelling affirmations: “You are a warrior!” I’m in the back row trying not to pass out, thinking, “If I were a warrior I’d have health insurance from the village.”
The class ended with everyone ringing a gong if they “found their power.” I rang it by accident because I was leaning on it to keep from falling. Whole room erupted like I just cured polio. I left with endorphins, shame, and a $42 water bottle that still smells like grapefruit shame.
But the real sign I’ve made it? I bought a plunger before I needed one. That’s adult peak. You’re not hoping for the best anymore; you’re planning for the worst with ergonomic handles. I keep it where guests can see it, like, “Yeah, I’m prepared. I also have a 401(k) and a flashlight that works. Come at me, life.”
Alright, that’s my time. If you enjoyed yourselves, tell your friends; if not, just lie and say it was “an experience.” Either way, I’ve been up for 18 hours and I’m one sneeze away from throwing my back out. Good night!
