Sarah Bakeman has no idea what she’s doing
By Sarah Bakeman
I have a confession: I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’m pretty sure that bulky dude who works at the BP by my house can tell, too. He explained the intricacies of repairs he performed on my rusted 2007 Ford Escape while I outstretched a tie-dye debit card, wore a shirt featuring cats playing volleyball and clutched keys to a car that had a stuffed animal in the backseat. He should’ve just said he refilled the blinker fluid. Frankly, the experience was degrading for both of us.
I brought it in because the battery light came on the other day as I drove home from the dentist. I’m only familiar with double-A or triple-A batteries and I’m 70% sure my car can’t run on those.
I don’t understand sandals. I caved and wore them to school once, but my brain proceeded to flip between two thoughts the rest of the day. “I look like a Mesopotamian textile weaver” and “everybody in this room could outrun me right now.” Feet should be a shameful, private matter.
I always top my pasta with parmesan. I just need to figure out how people enjoy it without it vanishing in two seconds.
I didn’t know narwhals were real until two years ago. I assumed they were the unicorns of whales. I’m still not 100% convinced because I’ve never seen one. That’s why I don’t fully discredit flat-earthers. I’ve never been to space. I also performed poorly in 7th-grade science, but I couldn’t help it. My teacher wore sandals.
How do I do long division? How fast should I set my windshield wipers? Why are everybody’s wipers always slower than mine? Why do people like Harry Styles? Why do people like soccer?
Last Sunday I dropped my communion wafer on a shoe-stained floor. I picked it up and ate it anyway because I didn’t want God to be mad at me.
Uh oh, I just remembered something. Jesus wore sandals. You think he’s mad at me for saying bad things about them? I’ve gotta do some damage control. I wonder if my mom has any extra DSW coupons.
I may be a little confused. But I’ve got something going for me. I’m a God-fearing, parmesan-loving science denier. If these traits can’t get me through college, I’ll request an apprenticeship from the bulky mechanic at BP — a job that requires closed-toed shoes.
