I was at a coffee shop the other day, meticulously arranging my scarf, latte, and phone to achieve peak 'effortlessly chic' aesthetic.

Meanwhile, my brain was just frantically trying to recall if I turned off the curling iron.

He said I was 'too picky' because I wanted a guy who could hold a conversation and, you know, ideally have a job.

Meanwhile, his dating profile said 'seeking a woman who's naturally gorgeous, a gourmet chef, and loves watching all 8 seasons of my favorite anime.' Pretty sure we have different definitions of 'picky,' fellas.

I was trying to open a jar of pickles yesterday, and it just wouldn't budge.

I didn't just struggle; I dropped to my knees, looked up at the ceiling, and delivered a full Shakespearean monologue about the futility of human endeavor against the unyielding forces of the universe, all to the backdrop of a soaring orchestral score only I could hear.

My favorite pair of jeans are the ones I bought three years ago because they were 'a little loose.'

Now they require a full body exhale and a prayer to the denim gods just to get past my knees.