"Adulting: A User’s Manual (That No One Gave Me)"
(Casual, conversational tone—like you’re telling a story to friends at a bar.)
So, I turned 30 this year. Which, by the way, is just old enough to realize that no one actually knows what they’re doing. We’re all just winging it and hoping the Wi-Fi stays strong.
I thought by now, I’d have my life together. You know, like a real adult. I’d have a 401(k), a skincare routine, and at least one plant that hasn’t committed suicide under my care. But no. My biggest achievement last week was remembering to take my lunch to work and remembering to eat it. That’s growth.
People say, "Oh, your 30s are when you really figure things out." Lies. Absolute lies. My 20s were just me pretending I had my sht together while eating cold pizza for breakfast. My 30s are me admitting I don’t have my sht together… while eating better cold pizza for breakfast. Progress!
And can we talk about how no one warns you about the hidden costs of adulthood? Like, I knew rent was expensive, but no one told me that existing is a subscription service. "Oh, you want to keep the lights on? That’ll be $200. You’d like to not get scurvy? Here’s a $150 grocery bill. And by the way, your car just turned 100,000 miles—congrats, it’s now a classic, like your knees after leg day."
Speaking of leg day—why do we even do that? I don’t need to squat 300 pounds. The heaviest thing I lift is my own disappointment when I step on the scale. And yet, I pay $60 a month to a gym where I go twice a week to lie to myself. "Yeah, I’m gonna go five times this week." No, you’re not. You’re gonna go once, touch a dumbbell like it’s a cursed artifact, and then reward yourself with Taco Bell.
And don’t get me started on meal prepping. Oh, you’re gonna cook all your meals for the week on Sunday? Bold move. By Wednesday, you’re gonna be so sick of chicken and broccoli that you’ll trade it for a stranger’s half-eaten burrito in the break room. "Oh, you don’t want this? Cool, I’ll just— [mimes snatching it] —thanks, Karen."
The worst part is, now I’m at the age where my friends are starting to have kids. And I love my friends’ kids—I do. But also, I don’t understand them. They’re just tiny humans who don’t know how to human yet. You ever try to have a conversation with a 3-year-old? It’s like talking to a drunk philosopher.
"Why is the sky blue?"
"Uh… science?"
"But why?"
"Because… light bends?"
"Why?"
"I don’t know, man, ask your dad."
"Dad’s on his phone."
"Yeah, we all are."
And now, suddenly, I’m supposed to be the responsible one in the room. Me! The guy who once microwaved a fork for 30 seconds just to see what would happen! (Spoiler: Nothing good.) But now, if I’m babysitting and the kid asks for a snack, I can’t just hand them a handful of cereal and a Red Bull like, "Here, figure it out." No, now I have to cut the grapes in half like some kind of psychopath.
The scariest part? I’m starting to sound like my parents. The other day, I caught myself saying, "Back in my day, we didn’t have all these fancy apps—we just remembered things!" And then I immediately Googled "how to delete my search history" because I couldn’t remember how.
So yeah, adulthood is just a series of realizing that everything you thought you knew was a lie, and the only thing keeping you from complete chaos is a to-do list you’ll never finish. But hey, at least we’re all in this together. Misery loves company, and company splits the Uber fare.
Thanks, you’ve been a great crowd! Don’t forget to tip your servers—and by "servers," I mean your therapists. We all need ‘em.
(Pause for applause, then walk off like you just dropped a truth bomb.)
Why this works:
- Relatable struggles (adulting, gym lies, parenting fears) make it universal.
- Self-deprecating but not mean—pokes fun at common flaws without punching down.
- Strong pacing—builds from small observations to bigger "aha" moments.
- No puns! Just observational humor and exaggerated truths.
Want to tweak it? Swap in your own quirks (e.g., "I still don’t know how to fold a fitted sheet" or "I Googled ‘how to boil water’ last week").
