Some people just have it all. They’re gifted with athleticism, gorgeous flowing hair, the ability to eat a thousand bags of cool ranch Doritos and not gain a pound. The “have it alls” are naturally beautiful, conversationally gifted, and can generally stop drinking after one glass of wine.
Then there is me.
On a good day, which is usually a Thursday, I snooze three times before getting out of bed, realize
I don’t want to there is not enough time to shower, and opt for a headband to conceal the collection of greasy follicles on my head.
Make up is a struggle. Picking an outfit is a war.
Despite the fact that I’ve made several resolutions to be more polished and put together, I can’t seem to get my body on board by taking sleep off the top of my priority list.
Basically, I’m a hot mess and I can’t do anything correctly due to the fact that sleep dominates my life and I was given the short end of the stick in the talent department.
Given the opportunity, or a new body that miraculously is good at stuff, I would like to know how to do the following:
It’s no secret that I am the worst chef on the planet. You ask me to make you toast, I’ll give you a plate full of bready ashes and a glob of jelly on the side. I just don’t know how to do it. My idea of a fully cooked dinner is a bag full of microwaved steamed broccoli and a side of 90-second rice. I like microwaves because you don’t touch anything, and at the end of three minutes, your meal is hot and you didn’t ruin anyone’s day.
If I have to look at another piece of IKEA furniture and try to assemble it based on picture directions, heads will roll. There are always four extra pegs and a structure that, to me, looks sound, but once I place an item of more than a pound on it, the whole thing will come crashing terribly to the floor. I can’t build anything. Except bears, I can totally build a bear.
Anything involving cars:
I bring in my car for a routine checkup and the mechanic tells me I have a four-foot-long boa constrictor in my engine and a nest of African rats in my trunk. Seems reasonable, so yes, I’d love to pay $800 for you to alleviate that problem, Mr. Mechanic. It would be nice to know that it isn’t possible for my gas tank to be under the hood of my car, or the general location of my spare tire.
If I text you and tell you I’m five minutes away, multiply it by four because I will be lost in thirty seconds. I cannot, for the life of me, navigate to and from a location in one successful attempt. Sure, you may think to yourself, “Why doesn’t this chick just buy a GPS?” And to you I say, thank you, but even GPS are not immune to my idiocy, and I have no idea how far three-hundred feet is, so now seems like a good time to make a right.