‘I drink almond milk anyway to prove that I’m actually dairy-free even though I just had four slices of pizza.’
Obviously, I have no idea what I’m doing.
By Jhenna Becker
I don’t know how to tell the difference between 1%, skim milk, and 2%. I’ve been told several times that skim milk is watery, and 1% is the way to go, and 2% is for hard stomachs only. It doesn’t matter to me. They all taste white. I drink almond milk anyway to prove that I’m actually dairy-free even though I just had four slices of pizza.
I don’t know what to say if someone sneezes three more times after I’ve already said “bless you.” I’m not sure if I should bless them again, or should I just ignore it and risk the awkward silence. You’d think that after suffering the cringeworthy 2000s and 2010s memes would tell millenials and Gen-Zs how to combat awkward silence with Jim from The Office.
I don’t have the faintest idea how to change a tire. There’s something about this duty that comes with the responsibility of having a car that scares me away. If my car gets a flat tire in the middle of the highway, I’m calling my dad. As he bends down to do the work, I’ll watch over the work and look all concerned and take on the very important job of handing him wrenches and jacks with no clue of their purpose.
I don’t know if my really fast typing is considered really annoying by my roommates. I can’t help it if my computer keys are really loud and clicky. I might get bruises on my fingers someday and I will only be able to write my manuscripts on long scrolls like that poor kid from Harry Potter.
I don’t know if I should be concerned that I only have three pairs of boots. My fake UGGs look realistic and comfortable enough that I can just pass for an awkward middle schooler in leggings. I’m not sure if I should be learning how to do my makeup by doing it every morning. I’m too tired to do it in the morning though. I don’t know how to contour. It sounds like it means a curve in the road.
I don’t know what it means if I have hypothyroidism. I can’t remember the details every time I have to talk about it with a new doctor. I need my mom for that. She has a manila folder with my name on the label in perfect cursive like an elementary school teacher. Will hypothyroidism cause an early death? Yikes. Probably something I shouldn’t know, then.
I don’t know how to roast a chicken. My mom always tries to tell me how to make an “easy fried chicken,” but sorry I don’t know what it means to “baste it” or to “defrost.” Can’t I just throw it in the crockpot?
I don’t know how to keep a budget or organize it. I just got a credit card this year. It’s yellow, like a neutral baby gender-reveal party. I pay every month. The papers that are deemed “important” by my parents just get thrown into my drawer. I’ll look later if I need to do taxes. I don’t know how to limit myself at Target when the dollar section glows with new mini snow-white Christmas trees that would look so cute in my dorm room. Is one hundred dollars too much to spend? Maybe the government won’t complain too much if I use their money before they give it back.
So, as you can see, I’m a little in over my head. I just typed this out with barely any inspiration on my really loud computer keys.
