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Can we talk about auto-correct? I swear, my phone is out to sabotage my social life. I was texting my friend about our plans to go to a bar, and instead of saying, "Let's grab a drink," my phone decided to change it to, "Let's grab a dingo." Yeah, because nothing says a good time like kidnapping an Australian wild dog. My friend replies, "Are you okay? Do I need to call someone?" Thanks, auto-correct, for turning my innocent plans into a potential criminal investigation. Next time, I'm turning off auto-correct and letting my messages be a wild, untamed jungle of typos.
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Can we talk about the perils of modern technology? I accidentally pocket-dialed my boss the other day. Yeah, nothing says job security like your boss hearing you belt out '80s power ballads in the car. I didn't realize it until I got a call back from him, and he's like, "Nice rendition of 'Total Eclipse of the Heart,' but we've got a deadline." I was mortified. Now I'm just waiting for my employee of the month award for Best Unintentional Karaoke Performance.
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Let's talk about elevators, or as I like to call them, vertical chambers of awkwardness. I was in one the other day, and it stopped on a floor, and in walks my ex. Awkward, right? But wait, it gets better. The elevator decides this is the perfect time to have a momentary power outage. So there we are, standing in the dark, forced to have an ex-conversation with each other. It's like the universe wanted to add some mood lighting to my humiliation. I tried to break the silence by saying, "Well, this is illuminating," but all I got was an eye roll. Can't blame a person for trying.
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You ever have one of those days where you think you're nailing it, and then life throws you a curveball? I recently had a wardrobe malfunction that could rival any Super Bowl halftime show. I was at this fancy event, feeling all confident, until I realized my fly was wide open. Now, I don't know if you've ever tried to discreetly zip up your pants in a room full of people, but let me tell you, it's like trying to perform surgery with a butter knife. I'm over here doing the zipper dance, trying to be inconspicuous, but I'm pretty sure I looked like I was auditioning for a new interpretive dance troupe. It's embarrassing, folks. I thought I was making an entrance, turns out, it was more like an escape route.
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