Generate a Stand-Up Routine

Three minutes, no puns. Here we go.

Do you ever feel like you’ve been dropped into a game at level 40 but nobody explained the controls? Like you’re playing Grand Theft Auto and you get a truck for your first car. I was like, “What’s the gas button? What do the lights do? Why does it keep asking for a maintenance fee?”

My parents used to say, “If you don’t know, ask,” so I started asking my phone. My phone says, “I don’t know,” and my smart speaker says, “You should talk to your phone.” I’m the connecting dot between two devices who refuse to be in the same room with each other.

Then there’s my meditation app that says, “You should breathe deeply,” right after it hangs for five minutes. I was breathing so deep my cat jumped into my lungs. The app’s like, “Think of a serene meadow,” and I’m thinking of a laundry mountain. That’s still nature, right? The folds and folds and the anxiety lives in the pockets.

My kids watch YouTube kids, which apparently is a subscription that streams you chaos at high definition. Every video starts with “Don’t try this at home.” Thank you, Sam, but that’s not necessary—my house already has a live experiment section running 24/7. The toddler just discovered he can hit his own nose. We’ve been asked by neighbors to please remove the echo. I didn’t know I had an echo until I had a toddler.

And don’t get me started on notifications. They’re like an overcaffeinated roommate who won’t stop tapping my shoulder. “Hey—want free shipping?” No, not today. “Hey—there’s 50% off everything.” That’s math I’m not doing right now. “Hey—your nephew shared a photo.” Love him, but also, why did his dog just appear half a foot tall? Was that intentional? My mental calendar now has a whole section called “Unanswered Developments,” which is 90% of my life.

I used to have all my mail in one place. Now it’s in twelve. The brick mailbox, the email, the app, the printer tray, the “spam” folder, the “clutter,” the shoe box in the closet, the drawer I declare “emergency only,” and occasionally the sink. I have a tower of paper I call “Future Me’s Problem.” Future Me keeps emailing Past Me. Past Me says, “Hang on, I’m busy looking up if cereal expires.” Apparently it does. Cereal is an adult now. We’re on a first-name basis.

I bought an air fryer because I saw it crisp air. The internet said it changes life. I set it to 400. It took 18 minutes. I have never appreciated zero for so long. And then I try to open the drawer and the drawer is angry at me like it’s been guarding a family secret. I whisper, “Can I have the spatula?” It goes, “Schweet”—you know, the sound a drawer makes when you’re on trial.

Okay, email etiquette. I have three accounts now. Work, home, and the one I made for giving out my number when buying pizza. Every day I get three identical messages in slightly different fonts. I reply to one with “Thanks!” The other two go unanswered and live there like groundhogs. Sometimes they celebrate. I think it’s Groundhog Day in my inbox and I forgot the coffee.

And then there’s voice control. My smart speaker listens to everything I say. Last week it woke up and told me about 200 balloons. I asked it to order groceries. It ordered balloons. “Balloons, balloons, DOOM.” It’s very dramatic. I prefer the days it forgets my name and calls me “senator.” That makes me feel like a man of the people. Because the people asked, “Which people?”

Then the packages. The packages that live in my hallway like trolls. They have names like “For Samantha—Do Not Bend.” I do nothing but bend. They stare at me with their barcodes like moral compasses pointing toward tomorrow’s future decisions. I call them “The Cabinet of Wants.” Eventually they become “The Cabinet of Forgetting.” I open it six months later like archaeology, excited to find socks, disappointed to find a trash can of unfulfilled dreams.

I’m told by the internet that I should have a “system.” Like a morning routine with protein and gratitude and the one important task. That’s six items. My morning has two: coffee and pretending I understand gravity. It works maybe 30% of the time.

I tried yoga once. There’s a pose called “child’s pose.” That’s cute—because the child is asleep, and I can’t find mine. The yoga teacher said, “Let’s inhale,” and I did. My dog then exhaled so hard that my mat became a deck. I pivoted. I took the dog to a store that sells dog yoga. They promised me “calm.” The dog spent 20 minutes chasing the staff. The staff said, “It’s okay, lots of dogs don’t settle.” That’s me at every dinner party.

Look, I love tech. It’s like I have a friend who is 80% magic, 20% menace. Sometimes it reminds me to breathe and sometimes it tells me in loud tone, “This is a restaurant. People want to eat, not be your audience.” I’m learning boundaries. It’s like drawing lines in the sand with a crayon. My phone’s like, “Fine, I’ll respect the lines,” and then the line disappears when I blink.

The plan is still forming. Maybe next week I’ll organize something. Maybe I’ll put the mail in the mail. Maybe I’ll throw away an email that says “You are special.” That feels like cheating, but it’s kind of like deleting one of the twelve hats I don’t wear.

I have a method. I call it “Adult Theater.” I buy nice chairs for the house, I arrange them like a public space, and I sit in one and say, “Well, I did it.” That is 10% productive and 90% theatrical. The kids clap. The dog barks an encore. My phone says, “I don’t understand this.” I say, “It’s life, my friend.” It goes, “I’ll send you an update.” I say, “Stop.” We both relax. For two seconds. Then something else wants to be a balloon.