Thanks for coming out! I almost didn’t make it. Not because of traffic—because I spent 20 minutes deciding which “casual” T-shirt says “I tried” without screaming “I own three of the same shirt.”
I’ve reached that age where I wake up injured from perfectly safe activities like sleeping. I lay down fine, I wake up like I lost a bar fight in a dream sequence. Someone asks, “What happened to your neck?” And I have to be like, “Yeah, I did an aggressive nap. Went too hard on the left side.”
Health is a journey, right? My friend said, “Listen to your body.” So now I’m in a toxic relationship. My body only texts me three times: you’re tired, you’re hungry, and “Find a bathroom.” There’s no nuance. It’s never like, “Hey, great job hydrating today.” It’s like a petty roommate. “We’re out of magnesium, and also your knees are ghosts now.”
I tried running. People say, “Once you get into it, you get that runner’s high.” I ran for two months. The only high I got was when I stopped. I had the runner’s relief. You ever see runners? They look miserable mid-run. The only people smiling during a run are in stock photos. Those are models pretending to jog in new shoes, not real people who lost a bet with their metabolism.
Food is worse now because everything is a lifestyle. I just want bread without a TED Talk. I bought a loaf that was “ancestral, sprouted, stone-crushed.” I thought I was making a sandwich; apparently I’m doing a ritual. The guy at the store asked, “Do you want the gluten-free, grain-free, guilt-free bread?” I said, “Give me bread that’s just bread. And throw in some forgiveness.”
I’m trying to be more environmentally friendly, but the recycling rules are like a logic puzzle designed by a prankster. You need a minor in plastics. “This is recyclable if you remove the label, convert it to a guitar, and whisper your Social Security number into the cap.” I washed a yogurt cup so thoroughly it got tenure. Then I find out my city doesn’t even recycle those. They just throw them away—gently. With thoughts and prayers.
Dating apps are chaos. They’re like shopping for people with filters. “Must love dogs, travel, and being photographed on the edge of a cliff.” Why is every profile at a cliff? Is that a personality now? “I’m adventurous, I have a hat, and I ignore park signage.” And everyone says they love “spontaneous adventures.” No, you don’t. You like brunch. That’s okay. Brunch is just breakfast that slept in and put on jewelry.
Job interviews are the same performance art. “Tell us your greatest weakness.” I panicked and said “cheese.” That’s not professional, but it’s honest. They want you to be vulnerable, but also confident, and also a golden retriever with Excel. “I’m a perfectionist, which means I care too much.” No, it means you’ll overwork a spreadsheet until it calls HR.
I got a smart home device to simplify my life, and nothing has been simple since. I’m living with a polite ghost that occasionally mishears me and turns off the lights during an emotional moment. I’ll say, “Play relaxing jazz,” and it’s like, “Setting alarm for 3 a.m.” And I just accept it. “Okay, I guess we’re waking up in the witching hour now. Self-care.”
Air travel is the Olympics of pretending you’re okay. The plane boards in castes: Platinum Wizards, Gold Griffin Members, People Who Once Saw a SkyMall. By the time they call my group, the gate agent has retired. And the seat? They’ve made it so thin that my knees are writing Yelp reviews. Then they come down the aisle with the tiny water like it’s communion. “Body of hydration, peace be with you.”
I tried meditation. I downloaded an app that told me to “observe my thoughts without judgment.” My thoughts are like: remember that embarrassing thing from 2009? Let’s rewatch it in 4K. And when I finally calm down, my own brain goes, “Did you leave the stove on?” I don’t even own a stove that dangerous. It’s an electric rectangle. It’s fine. But now I’m up checking it like it’s plotting.
I’m working on being grateful. Big stuff, small stuff. Like, I’m grateful for that first sip of coffee that hits like an apology from the universe. I’m grateful for friends who text “home?” when you’re out, which really means, “Do I need to put on pants and come rescue you?” And I’m grateful for all of you pretending not to notice I definitely wore my “nice” T-shirt.
You’ve been great—if anyone here knows how to set a smart thermostat without starting a cold war, please meet me after the show. Thanks!
