Somewhere out there is a person who has their life together. They meal-prep. They know where their passport is. They have a will, a dentist and a second pillowcase. They have never eaten cereal over the sink at 10pm while their reflection in the oven door watches and takes notes.
That person is not reading this. You are. They’re asleep. They sleep well.
Nobody has their life together. Some people just have better lighting and fewer witnesses.
Score yourself honestly. It won’t change anything. Nothing ever does.
At Home
- You own one nice candle. You have never lit it. It is for guests. You do not have guests. It will outlive you, unlit.
- Your fridge contains three condiments, a lemon from a previous government and a single yoghurt that is now older than your last relationship.
- There is a chair in your bedroom. It is not for sitting. It holds clothes in a legal grey area between clean and evidence.
- You bought a plant to prove you could keep something alive. The plant has filed for separation.
- Your junk drawer became a junk cupboard. It has a five-year plan. You don’t.
- You made your bed properly once this year. A man was coming to look at the boiler.
At Work
- You say “let me circle back on that.” There is no circle. You are not coming back.
- You keep a notebook labelled IDEAS. Page one says “ideas”. Page two is a shopping list. Page three is a cube. The cube is your finest work.
- Your calendar is colour-coded. The colours mean nothing.
- You nodded through an entire meeting about a project you were, it turns out, leading. It is behind schedule. So are you.
- Your out-of-office reply is the most organised thing you’ve written since school. It is also the only message that gets an instant response.
Money
- You have a budgeting app. You muted it the way you’d mute an ex who was right about you.
- You check your balance with one eye closed. The other eye still sees it.
- You have described a coat as “an investment”. The coat is depreciating faster than you. Barely.
- You have a savings account. It contains $12 and a strong sense of potential. The bank charges $3 a month to hold it. Do the maths.
- You cancelled one subscription, felt like a CEO, and signed up for two more to celebrate. The company always has your card.
Socially
- You type “haha” with the face of a man reading a parking fine.
- You confirmed plans three weeks ago praying they’d fall through. They didn’t. You’ll both leave at 9:15, and the friendship will quietly expire like a passport nobody renewed.
- You tell people you’re “trying to be more present” while reading lists like this one.
- You’ve rehearsed “oh, this old thing?” for something that is, genuinely, an old thing. Like you.
- Your friends think you’re thriving because of one photo of a homemade sourdough loaf. There was no second loaf. The starter is dead. You never held a service.
On the Inside
- You have a five-year plan. It has been a five-year plan for eight years. At this rate it becomes a retirement plan, then a eulogy.
- You own a water bottle with motivational time markings. You are currently four hours behind your own water.
- You’ve bought a new planner every January since 2017. Together they form a complete archive of the first nine days of every year.
- You say “I’m just tired” in a tone that covers eleven separate issues.
- You make one phone call a month and need a small sit-down afterwards. The call was to confirm a delivery slot.
- You read this entire list nodding, then opened a new tab to “get organised”, and are now looking at sofas you cannot afford with money you will never have.
Your Results
0 to 5: You’re lying. The fact that you’re lying to a listicle is its own result.
6 to 18: Perfectly normal. You are held together by a hair tie, caffeine and the fear of anyone seeing your bedroom chair.
19 to 27: Congratulations. You are a fully functioning adult. You function. You are an adult. Nobody has asked follow-up questions because nobody is that interested.
Close the sofa tab. You’ll be sitting on the old one until it, or you, gives out first.