(Lights up. Comedian walks on, casual, holding a half-eaten granola bar.)
Alright, real talk—why is adulting so weird? Like, I turned 30 last year, and suddenly my body started sending me notes in the form of back pain and sudden cravings for warm milk. Not wine. Not coffee. Warm milk. As if I’m a toddler who just saw a raccoon in the kitchen and needs to calm down.
I went to the doctor for a routine checkup, and the nurse asked me if I’d had any changes in bowel habits. I was like, “Well… I do now. I have to plan my bathroom breaks around whether the grocery store has a self-checkout or a live human. If it’s a human, I might make it. If it’s a machine that judges me in silent, mechanical disappointment? I’m already halfway home.”
(Mimics machine beeping judgmentally)
Beep. Error. Customer’s internal clock set to “late 1990s.”
And don’t get me started on technology. I asked Siri to play “chill vibes,” and it put on yoga music—the kind that features a single note held for eight minutes while someone whispers “breathe in… exhale…” I sat there for ten minutes waiting for the drop, like it was a hip-hop track. I was ready to shout “DROP IT, SIRI!” but then I remembered: I’m not at a club. I’m in my kitchen, trying to fold a fitted sheet while being gently reminded to “release tension in the shoulders.”
Speaking of which—how do you fold a fitted sheet? I swear, it’s like origami designed by someone who hates you. You start with a clean, peaceful intention: I will fold this sheet. I will be organized. I will be the kind of person who has matching hangers. And then… bam. You’re wrestling a corner like it’s a greased pig at a county fair. You end up in a sweaty, tangled heap, whispering, “Why are you like this? We agreed to coexist.”
(Mimes struggling with a sheet, then collapses dramatically)
I tried watching a cooking show once—The Great British Bake Off, right? All of them are calm, like they’re baking in a library. Paul Hollywood pokes a loaf, gives a tiny nod, and the baker cries with joy. I looked at my own kitchen. My “oven” is a toaster oven that smells like burnt toast and regret. My “loaf” is more of a… suggestion. I once tried to make banana bread, and it came out looking like a small, sad geological formation—part lava flow, part fossil.
The host said, “Just fold in the nuts gently.” I looked at my nuts—literal walnuts—and thought, How gentle can you be with walnuts? They’re basically nature’s tiny landmines. I added them like I was defusing a bomb. Snip. Cut the wire. Oh god, it’s ticking… I’m not baking. I’m doing HAZMAT operations.
And relationships? Oh man. Dating in your 30s is like playing chess with someone who’s never played chess before. You’re like, “Let’s go for coffee?”
They say: “Sure! I love coffee.”
You say: “Great. What kind do you like?”
They say: “Uh… the brown one?”
You’re dating, not ordering at a gas station.
Or the texts. You send a simple “Good morning” and wait. And wait. And suddenly you’re drafting a 12-paragraph analysis of your emotional availability, just in case they ask why you’re up at 7:03 a.m. scrolling through their Instagram stories from 2016 where they’re wearing a hat you still think looks good on them.
(Pauses, looks at audience, softens)
Look—I miss being 20. Back then, I stayed up until 4 a.m. debating whether pineapple belongs on pizza. Now? I stay up until 4 a.m. debating whether I belong on this planet.
But hey—if I can’t fold a fitted sheet or make banana bread… at least I can still laugh. Because if you’re not laughing, you’re just crying into your warm milk.
(Takes a bite of granola bar. Shakes head, smiles.)
Thanks, you’ve been great. Try not to fold any fitted sheets tonight. Seriously. Let it be a spiritual practice.
(Exits.)
