(Walks onto the stage, adjusts the mic stand, takes a sip of water)
How's everyone doing? Good? You look good. You look like people who have their lives together. Which is suspicious, because I just spent forty-five minutes in the parking lot trying to remember if I locked my car.
I don't mean I forgot how to lock it. I mean I locked it, walked away, and then my brain immediately filed that action under "Things That Definitely Didn't Happen." So now I'm doing that weird dance we all do. You know the one? You're twenty feet away, pressing the key fob blindly, hoping to hear that satisfying chirp-chirp, but you're too far away for the signal, so you just look like you're aggressively clicking a broken toy at a distant vehicle.
And if it doesn't beep? Panic. Absolute panic. Now I have to walk all the way back. And as I'm walking back, I'm rehearsing my apology to the thief. "Hey, sorry I made this so easy for you. Please don't take my gym bag; it's mostly just old protein shakers and regret."
But honestly, why is our memory so bad now? I feel like my brain is just a browser with too many tabs open. I have a tab for "Buy Milk," a tab for "That Embarrassing Thing I Said in 2009," and a tab for "How Do You Boil an Egg?" and they're all playing music at the same time.
I tried to get into "mindfulness" recently. You know, live in the moment. My friend told me to focus on my breathing. So I sat there, closed my eyes, and focused on my breath for about twelve seconds before I started wondering if I left the stove on. Then I wondered if I even have a stove, or if I just hallucinated my entire kitchen.
That's the thing about adulthood, right? It's just constant low-level suspicion that you're about to be fired from reality.
I went to the grocery store yesterday. Just a simple run. In and out. But the grocery store is designed to break you. They moved the peanut butter. Why? Who made this decision? Was there a meeting? "Okay team, sales are up, morale is high... let's move the jelly to Aisle 4 and the peanut butter to Aisle 9 and watch them suffer."
So now I'm standing in Aisle 4, holding a jar of grape jelly, looking around like a lost tourist. And I see another guy there. We make eye contact. We both know. We both know we're looking for peanut butter. There's a silent bond there. A shared trauma. We nod at each other. It's like, "Hang in there, buddy. They want us to buy impulse snacks while we search. Don't give in."
But I did give in. I bought those little chocolate cookies you aren't supposed to eat until you get home. I ate three of them in the car before I even started the engine. And now I'm sitting in my driveway, full of cookie dust, wondering if I locked the car again.
(Pauses, looks at the audience)
Actually, hold on. Did I lock the car tonight? I walked here. Okay, good. I'm safe.
But seriously, isn't it weird that we trust these machines with our lives? We get in a two-ton metal box, press a pedal, and hope nobody else forgot which lane they're supposed to be in. I was driving earlier, and this guy cut me off. Hard. No signal, just zoom. And I got so mad. I was yelling, "Where are you going? What's the emergency? Is your wife giving birth in the passenger seat?"
But then I thought about it. Maybe he is. Or maybe he's just late for work. Or maybe he's just as confused as I am, driving around with fifty tabs open in his brain, looking for the peanut butter of life.
So I let it go. I took a deep breath. I practiced mindfulness. And then I immediately forgot what exit I was supposed to take and ended up in a completely different town.
But hey, at least the scenery was nice. And I'm pretty sure I locked the car this time. Pretty sure.
(Smiles, waves)
You've been great, thank you!
