My co-worker just casually asked if I had any fun weekend plans.

Now my brain is frantically trying to decide if 'binge-watching a show in pajamas' sounds impressively chill or pathetically unaccomplished.

I finally found a dress with actual, functional pockets yesterday.

I almost didn't buy it, because I wasn't sure I was ready for that level of commitment to practicality. My phone usually just lives in my bra.

My morning commute isn't just a drive to work.

It's a carefully curated montage of triumph and adversity, scored by an epic instrumental, where every red light is a dramatic pause, and arriving at the office feels like the triumphant final scene of a blockbuster.

I'm not just running late for work, I'm

orchestrating a thrilling, against-all-odds, commute-as-action-movie sequence, complete with a pulse-pounding soundtrack and an Oscar-worthy monologue about the tribulations of public transportation.