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Laundry day at my place is like a national event. I schedule it, promote it on social media, and still, I manage to miss it. The laundry pile in my room has achieved a level of sophistication. I'm pretty sure it's developing a complex ecosystem in there. I bought a shirt the other day, and the cashier asked, "Would you like that in a bag?" I said, "No need. I'll just throw it on the laundry mountain when I get home. It'll find its way to the top eventually."
And folding clothes? Please, that's for people who have their lives together. I've mastered the "dig and wear" technique. You just dig through the pile until you find something that doesn't smell too bad and put it on. It's like a game of laundry roulette.
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You know you've reached a new level of adulting when your email inbox starts looking like an archaeological dig site. I mean, seriously, it's like I've neglected it so much that I expect to find some ancient civilization offering me a special discount on pottery or something. I neglect my inbox so much that Gmail sent me a sympathy card. It said, "We've noticed a lack of activity. Are you okay? Blink twice if you need help." I'm just waiting for the day my inbox files a missing person report on me.
And the unread emails keep piling up. It's like they're having a family reunion in there, and they're all mad at me for not showing up. I got an email from 2017 asking, "Are you still there?" No, 2017, I'm not. I'm lost in the abyss of unread newsletters and promotional offers.
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I'm at that stage of adulting where I go to the grocery store, buy all the healthy stuff, and then promptly neglect it until it turns into a science experiment. I bought kale once. I thought, "I'm going to be so healthy!" Well, that kale sat in my fridge until it started questioning its life choices. It looked at me like, "You had one job, and it was to eat me."
I recently found a jar of pickles in the back of my fridge that expired in 2019. I didn't even know pickles could expire. I think they turned into cucumbers again.
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I recently joined a gym because I heard it's a great place to get in shape. Well, I've been paying for that membership for six months now, and I've got to say, my money's getting a fantastic workout. The gym staff probably thinks I'm a mythical creature that only appears in their financial reports. They've never seen me. I'm like the Sasquatch of fitness — rumored to exist, but no one has any proof.
I even got a call from the gym manager the other day. They were concerned. He said, "Sir, we've noticed a lack of activity. Are you okay? Blink twice if you need help." I told him I'm in great shape; I'm just shaping my bank account more than my biceps.
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